Fate-in time

50

Long and far was the road to Valhalla.
A

path filled with treachery, glory, and honour, it was the pinnacle of any Saxon's achievement.
It was their faith, their belief in their Gods.
So when the earth shook and the skies seemed to echo with the tempest of a coming storm as the sound barrier shattered, all Saxons present understood what was before them.
There lying in a deep crater that scattered a plum of dust and grime into the air, was a fabled hammer.
"H-Hey, isn't that the hammer from the letters?" The Saxons began whispering to each other. "The one that the commanders said was all a big farce to divert their attention?"
The discussion erupted into violent whispers, the vast majority of the Saxons too shaken to even go and help their comrades who were injured from the impact. Many came off with heavy injuries and bruises that blackened their skin and caved in their armours and oval shields.
Groans echoed into the air, many yelling out in anguish from the pain, yet even then they were lucky. The ones directly beneath the hammer's trajectory were instantly killed, parts of their bodies reduced to a gory paste.
Moreover, as if there was some form of divinity protecting the hammer's image, not a single spec of blood or dirt blemished the hammer's polished metal.
The entire area around the Saxons grew silent. The only noise came from the interior where the brunt of the Saxon armies was facing off against the King of Britain. The sheer number of Saxons deployed denoted the importance the Saxon leaders had in killing the young King. More so because the King was too dangerous to be left alone, not after the previous skirmishes turned into slaughters.
It was a Holy Light, one born form the accursed sword in the King's hands.
Promised Victory?
The notion itself infuriated the Saxons, but the might of the sword was undoubtable. It alone could kill thousands with a mere swing, with its only weakness found in its wielder.
Till the present day, no Saxon knew just how many times the King of Britain could unleash an army killing attack, but it was proven that she could do it at least twice or thrice in succession.
The number of comrades the Saxons had to sacrifice just to test the King's limits alone made every Saxon hate the King of Britain to their bones. Never had the Saxons had the Saxons faced such an enemy that could utterly leave them at a loss.
However, in the end, the sacrifice of the Saxons was worth it.
In baiting the King to attack Saxon territory by revealing the capture of Sir Kay, the King had lost the wisdom that generally accompanied him on the battlefield. Forgoing the warnings of his advisors, the King recklessly charged forth and unleashed the power of his sword.
The number of times the King of Britain had already used his Sacred Sword in the past few days had already reached passed three. Taking the gamble, all Saxon commanders mobilized their troops and marched with the intention to kill.
None believed that the King could continuously fire off such devastating power with his sword. The fact that the sword's light had not reappeared despite the King's current predicament was telling. The King of Britain was nearing his limit, and to make the situation worse, the Saxons were still being cautious and it showed.
The Saxon armies weren't assigned into large groups, but separated into many smaller units spread across the vicinity. After the massacre at the battle of Glasbury, the Saxons already knew better than to provide a target for the King of Britain to swing that accursed sword.
The situation as it was, the sudden introduction of a new variable changed everything.
Stuck staring at the hammer before them, the Saxons swallowed audibly.
Should any one of them be able to take the hammer for themselves, then it wouldn't be long before they could usurp the position of war-chief from the other Saxon leaders. More than just their ambitions, what that hammer represented was honour.
He who can wield the mighty Mjolnir would be guaranteed a road to Valhalla.
It wasn't just the King of Britain who could wield such divine weapons.
If the Mjolnir, the strongest weapon of legend in Saxon belief were to be taken into Saxon possession, then the wielder in the eyes of the Nordic people would be no different from a God.
He who wields the mighty Mjolnir carried the legacy of the God of Thunder in Midgard.
The Son of the All Father.
Thor.
Hearts thumping within their chests, the Saxons lunged for the hammer in front of them, their eyes bloodshot as they glared at their comrades who were all competing for the same prize.
"Broga, you bastard, don't you dare! As if a brute like you can possibly be worthy!"
"Fuck you all, I was born strong, and to the strong go the spoils!"
"As if!"
Greed and ambition were clouding the Saxon's eyes. In a time where they should have been united to defeat the King of Britain, a petty squabble between themselves quickly escalated to full-blown confrontation.
Men were pushing and shoving, while many began to lock blades and strike ruthlessly. Worse of all, no matter how many times the hammer was approached, none were able to lift it, yet none wanted the competition to vie for it either.
It was selfishness. Even if they couldn't wield the hammer themselves, they believed that one day they could make themselves worthy enough to wield it. Until then, they'd rather have it in their possession then lose the opportunity to another.
The conflict intensified until temporarily coming to a pause.
"Wait stop you all, can't you see that none of us can even lift it? What if this is just a fake?" One of the Saxons who had been inured from the hammer's impact spoke up from the ground. His nose was bleeding and there was a large laceration from a piece of debris on his left arm. "Have you all even stopped to think about how sudden this is?"
It was true. In the midst of the battle to kill the King of Britain once and for all, the Mjolnir suddenly appeared.
A weapon of legend came out from nowhere?
It really was something that was too difficult to believe, and yet, none of the Saxon's could hide the desire in their eyes. After all, what if it was real?
Clearly it came from the sky where the Gods reside in their higher realms. Therefore, the Mjolnir could have been sent to the Saxons by the will of the All-Father in response to the Sacred Sword in the King of Britain's hands.
Although many Saxons were having such thoughts, most of them became more rational after the interruption and began discussing amongst themselves. There was no point in quarreling with their comrades when none of them could currently lift the Mjolnir up.
They all fell into a fervent discussion.
It was in the midst of the discussion that something beyond any Saxon's expectations occurred.
"Who the fuck is that bastard?"
Everyone stilled, the tension in the air turning cold.
Without anyone's notice, a red-haired youth had walked up to the hammer and gingerly picked it up before turning and bolting away.
The expressions of all the Saxons stiffened. Not once had anyone been able to lift the hammer no matter how hard they had tried, and now some random individual lifted it up without even trying?
None of the Saxons could accept such a result. More so when they realized that the stranger wasn't even part of their army.
Some random stranger had just taken what was the equivalent to a Holy Relic in the Saxons eyes and was blindly running away with it. To further add insult to injury, the physical feats the stranger was pulling off should've been impossible for someone of such a sleek yet sturdy build.
The stranger had literally picked up the Mjolnir and then jumped over the entire encirclement of Saxons before sprinting off into the distant hills.
If anything, the display of the stranger's physical capability had only stoked the desire in the hearts of the Saxons. After all, what did it mean for the stranger to suddenly possess such physical prowess?
It was real.
The hammer was the genuine Mjolnir.
He who wields the hammer would have the strength of a God of War.
Faces reddening in outrage, all of the Saxons of the small unit at the edge of the battlefield broke ranks and gave chase atop their horses.
"GIVE IT BACK!"
Their screams echoed, drawing the attention of other Saxon units nearby who stared at each other in confusion.
This feeling of misfortune that stems from deep within, why did it feel so familiar?
The grass beneath his feet.
The beating of his heart within his chest.
He couldn't understand it, or perhaps he already did at some deeper level.
Striding forward with quick steps, Shirou let out a sigh he didn't know that he had been holding before glancing back behind him.
Yup, still there.
It was as if they were chasing a mortal enemy. No matter what he did, or where he went, he got the feeling that the Saxons chasing him would stop at nothing to kill him.
Staring wearily at the hammer held in his hand, he began to wonder where it all started to go wrong. It was just a normal hammer to begin with. Yes, it was exceedingly heavy and it was almost impossible for normal people to wield it, but did the Saxons have to exaggerate everything so much?
At this point, he was certain that if he ever told a Saxon that he was using it as a simple forging hammer, he'd probably make an enemy for life.
The Saxons were right on his tail as he adjusted his speed to match theirs. Not only were their eyes bloodshot, but the veins popping over their foreheads revealed the intensity of their fury.
What was he thinking when he agreed to do something so dubious?
Intimidation they had said while patting his shoulder with their hands.
Mordred didn't like the way Palamid had been staring at him, but she held her mouth when she realized the situation the King was in when she got near enough to assess the number of enemies.
If the Saxons considered his hammer to be so Godly then why not use their mentality against them?
Over the course of the journey, he had displayed capabilities beyond that of an average individual. Of course, in the opinion of Mordred and the other Knights around her, he and his hammer were entirely to blame.
The fact that the hammer was unable to be transported normally due to its weight meant that Shirou could not ride a horse or load his hammer onto the carriages prepared by the people in Bristol.
Mordred was of the opinion that he just tosses his hammer forward like he had been doing on the way to Bristol, but the Son of Wolfred was quick to shoot the notion down with a glare.
To begin with, the army Palamid and the Son of Wolfred had gathered together using Shirou's influence as Lord Ashton was substantial. Not only did travelling Knights and mercenaries join the group, but many craftsmen came along as well for their own purposes.
Even from a distance they were large, making the likeliness of them getting spotted to be highly probable. Should Shirou toss his hammer like Mordred had suggested, then they would lose any element of surprise that the army could muster.
That being said, the problem of transport had still been an issue at that point until everyone realized a single truth.
Shirou was a monster.
A beast in human skin.
The fact that he could jog on pace with a horse while carrying his hammer had been enough reason for Palamid and the Son of Wolfred to force the current task on him despite earning Mordred's animosity.
Yes, he had one job currently, and that was to run.
Increasing his speed, he could not understand just why the intensity in the Saxons eyes increased exponentially.
They were provoked thoroughly.
Just seeing him exhibit such agility caused them to further regret letting the Mjolnir fall into a stranger's hands. They would kill him slowly for stealing what was theirs by right, they swore it.
Shirou, unable to understand the thoughts of his pursuers further increased his pace.
Sprinting for the hills, he passed the foot of two elevated hills before suddenly stopping in place.
To the Saxons, it was the moment that they had been waiting for.
"Die!" They yelled, charging forward.
Urged on by their frustration and anger, by the time the Saxons realized that something was wrong, it was already too late.
Arrows pelted over the Saxons in an unending rain, the surprise of the attack sending the Saxons into a fluster. Caught unprepared, the unit of Saxons suffered heavy casualties as the arrows found their way through the chinks of their armours. Worse, there was something about the sharpness of the arrowheads that made them far more lethal as they pierced straight through metal.
On one of the distant hills, Palamid nodded his head in Emily's direction. "Good work," Palamid said.
Emily simply nodded. To begin with, all she had done was reinforce the arrowheads to increase their lethality. It was the same for the new swords and equipment. She brushed back her hair with a hand in a controlled manner, a habit she had picked up in her time in house Barthomeloi. "It's not something worth praising me over when Shirou had been able to do this since we were kids."
A wistful expression came over her face before it shifted to one of neutrality at the recollection that Shirou couldn't even remember. Moreover, she too was like Mordred who was incensed to the point that Palamid and the Son of Wolfred had to detain her to her unit.
Emily's hands balled into fists in reflection of her mood.
She was displeased with Palamid and the Son of Wolfred's plan to use Shirou as bait while the army hid away in ambush. In Shirou's current state, he didn't even have access to the magic she had seen him use in their childhood. What if something went wrong?
Feeling Emily's displeasure, Palamid cleared his throat and pretended that he didn't notice. He'd have to warn the Son of Woflred later not to be too aggravating.
To be honest, neither Palamid nor the Son of Wolfred liked the plan much either, but they were left with no other choice.
The King had done a splendid job at becoming the Saxons public enemy.
Years of throwing himself into constant battle had only caused the animosity between both parties to swell.
In this case, there was simply too many of them.
Their numbers stretched out as far as the eyes could see, and although the equipment Emily had enchanted would allow Palamid and the army to cut a path straight through, not everyone was a monster like Shirou.
A point of exhaustion would be reached, and by that point, it wouldn't matter how effective their swords and armours were if they were no longer able to lift them.
"Spearmen, charge forward and finish them off!" The Son of Wolfred appeared over top one of the hills and suddenly ordered in a commanding voice. "Emily, notify me if any escape the area."
Emily smiled pointedly, her head tilting to the side as Palamid gestured to the Son of Wolfred in warning. The Son of Wolfred had already crossed a certain line for Emily when he suggested using Shirou as bait. At the very least, the Son of Wolfred should learn more tact. Although the Son of Woflred had matured, there was one thing about him that was still the same, his lack of propriety to read the situation before speaking.
The Son of Wolfred had always been one to speak his mind, yet in this case, it was like he was presenting his own head to the chopping board.
Noticing something off about Emily's lack of response, the Son of Wolfred glanced at her before sucking in a breath and backing off a few steps. "Please?" He asked in a small voice.
Emily sighed, before tactfully consenting her agreement.
Placing her foot to the ground, she began to draw an intricate set of magic patterns with her foot before gently tapping at the center of a formed sigil to activate it. "If any escape, I'll let you know," she said curtly. She wasn't petty enough to argue given the circumstances so she let the Son of Wolfred off for the time being.
The Saxons Shirou had lured in were quickly annihilated. With the constant attacks on all sides and the fact that they had chased Shirou too far away from the battlefield, they had no hope of reinforcements. Moreover, even the lucky few that escaped were stabbed through by a pulse of magical energy originating from the ground.
The whole ambush took little more than ten minutes, both for the battle and the clean up.
Sitting on a nearby rock, Shirou knew from the expression on Palamid's face that he would probably be sent out again.
His shoulders slumped, but he understood the importance of the role he was currently playing and bore with it.
Besides, unlike him, he wasn't the one that was the most restless with the situation.
"Damn bastards, why don't they just send themselves," Mordred grumbled from right next to him while scratching at her hair and glaring. Effectively, she had been placed on mandatory house arrest by Palamid and the Son of Wolfred lest she ruin everything and charge out after Shirou.
Now that Shirou was back however, she could take it no longer and forced her way to him. The Knights that tried to block her were met with both her fists and her ire which admittedly wasn't much of a deterrent, but something changed regarding the situation. The Knights loyal to Mordred butted in and made the other Knights helpless when a brawl ensued.
On a side note, Mordred had snuck her way out in the commotion.
Sitting next to him, Mordred was clearly in a fluster as her breathing was slightly erratic within her helm, but he didn't comment on it. He was just content that someone would worry on his behalf to such an extent.
"It's alright. I'm a tough kind of guy," he said.
No. No it's not alright.
Mordred stared at him before pursing her lips.
What Shirou couldn't understand was just how Mordred viewed him. He was her first friend, someone of great importance to her that fully supported her goals and motivations.
The thought of Shirou dying on her left her breathless, but at the same time, she couldn't be too angry with Palamid and the Son of Wolfred either. The two were doing their best to aid the King unlike her who was only causing problems.
The thought mellowed her features, her back slumping forward as she grew silent.
The two were resting a small-ways off from where Mordred's unit was positioned so they were fairly isolated from where Palamid was organizing the rest of the army.
Bringing her knees closer to her chest, Mordred wrapped her arms around her thighs and sighed, her expression unreadable.
Looking at her, Shirou was certain about what was running across her mind. He patted her on the back. "Don't think about it. I'm sure that the merit of rescuing the King will get you into the King's graces."
The tips of Mordred's ears reddened at the fact that she had been so easily read, but she refused to admit anything and just kept silent. "Y-You think so?" Her voice got the better of her.
Shirou grinned before standing up and moving towards the supply wagons which he steadily began to rummage through.
It was here somewhere.
One of the aspects of his sure-fire method to bring more of the King's attention to Mordred.
Fiddling with his hands, his eyes quickly brightened when he found what he was looking for.
Pulling out a crate about as large and as wide as his chest, he placed it in front of Mordred who stared at him in confusion.
"What the hell's in there?" She asked him, her arms crossing in front of her chest.
By now, Palamid and the Son of Wolfred were calling out to him to draw more Saxons into the ambush point, but he hid away from Palamid's Knights and temporarily ignored the summons.
His actions caused Mordred's interest to peak and she found herself leaning her head in forward to peer at the crate.
Not wasting anymore time, Shirou flipped the crate open to reveal what was inside, causing Mordred to be speechless.
"S-Shirou you-"
He raised a hand to interrupt her. "It's fine," he spoke, already knowing what she was going to say. "Although you've been holed up here at the ambush point, something tells me it's almost time for the full army mobilization order to arrive. At that point, your Knights will need these."
Not wasting another moment, Shirou stood and went on his way before Mordred could protest. Besides, Palamid and the Son of Wolfred had personally come to receive him so there was no way he could ignore the summons any longer.
"Hey, wait! You can't just…" Mordred's words died in her mouth. There was no point calling out anymore as Shirou was already gone.
Staring at the contents of the crate, she didn't know what to feel as she pulled out one of many folded fabrics. Etched into each individual fabric was a design she could recognize instantly for she was its proud creator.
It was her Coat of Arms which she had spent days trying to make as ferocious and intimidating as possible, and for the most, she thought she succeeded. After all, none could take their eyes away from it when it was seen, and Agravain had even called it 'off putting.' Anything that could unnerve that cold and straight-faced man must have been on another level of terrifying.
In the current moment however, she was at a loss.
Shirou wasn't a Knight and had no recollection of being one. The importance of a Coat of Arms was therefore lost on him. In which case, it was only natural that he prepared an extensive number of replicas pertaining Mordred's Coat of Arms to bring attention to her. Before leaving Bristol, he had asked this favour from the local seamstresses.
It was evident that he was intending on getting the other Knights that followed under her to wear her Coat of Arms in battle.
Yet that was the problem.
A Coat of Arm's was a Knight's identity. The banner they wore that represented their house and status in society. To take up another's Coat of Arms was to take away a Knight's identity in battle.
It was knowing this reason that she tried to hide the contents of the crate when she noticed William and the other Knights approaching her. In her fluster, rather than close it, she ended up spilling the crate's contents over the ground.
Her eyes dilated.
She stared silently at them in panic and they stared back without blinking.
It was over.
Even without explanation, the replicas of her Coat of Arms could only lead to a single assumption. That she had wanted William and the others to discard their own Coat of Arms in favour of hers.
She tried to come up with an excuse for the situation, but she found that her throat was suddenly too dry for her to speak.
She swallowed nervously, but something entirely different from her expectations occurred.
Wordlessly, William Orwel and the other Knights who had sworn loyalty to Mordred donned the garments in the crate with pride. Black-eyed and yet standing strong.
So, what if it wasn't their personal Coat of Arms, they'd wear it regardless.
"Y-You bastards, do your honours mean nothing to you?!" Mordred was at a loss for words and spoke the first line that came to her mind. Unknown to her, she had subconsciously heightened the tone of her voice.
She stood up and clenched her teeth.
Why?
Why are they going so far for a third-rate Knight like herself?
A lump was forming in her throat, her voice becoming shaky.
First it was Shirou, now it was them.
Why were they being so kind to her when all she had ever known in life was being shunned?
"What the hell are you even fighting for as Knights if you forsake your own identities!?" She couldn't understand it. No matter how hard she thought, she couldn't think of anything about her that was positive enough to sway others.
She wasn't a thinker, nor was she overly skilled like Lancelot
She was also quick to anger, and swift to lash out when in a fluster.
Just what part about her could be considered positive?
Her head naturally lowered as she prepared herself for the inevitable.
The Knights before her would leave her like the Knights before them.
Reality played out differently, no matter how long she waited, the shadows of the Knights around her didn't so much as budge. They remained perfectly in place.
The message was clear.
They would not leave.
Her lips quivered beneath her helm, the thumping of her heart echoing loudly in her ears. Gradually she raised her gaze upwards.
There directly in front of her was a group of individual Knights standing with their chests puffed forward and hands at their backs, waiting for her orders. Each of them wore the towel-long fabric embroidered with her Coat of Arms over their shoulders, giving them the appearance of flowing mantles.
"It is true that we would be forsaking our individual honour, but as a whole, we represent something different, Captain," William Orwel spoke slowly while taking a knee. The Knights behind him, black-eyed yet stern, were quick to follow. "The Knights of Mordred, at your service."
Mordred was frozen in place, unable to describe any of what she was feeling.
She staggered back one step, and then two.
She just barely managed to keep her legs from giving out beneath her as heat rushed up to her cheeks.
She was being overwhelmed by the sincerity of William and the other Knights, and just to cope with it, she turned her back to them and muttered in a low voice. "Do what you want, I-I'm not happy about this in the least."
Her words were one thing, but beneath her helm was another story.
It was the expression of a woman whose face was so red that she could no longer bear to be seen or heard.
The Saxons were acting strangely.
A man with flowing red hair that grew down passed his shoulders furrowed his brows as he urged his horse into a gallop. The man wore an intricate armour made out of a combination of steel plate and leathers that denoted his class as a nobility. Over his shoulders was a white flowing mantle.
His name was Tristan, one of the three Knights of the Round that had been on hand to accompany the King's reckless charge into enemy lines. Unlike Bedivere and Lancelot who were part of the right flank, Tristan alone managed the left.
"Sir Tristan, is it just me or do there seem to be less Saxons than there were in the beginning?" A Knight next to Tristan spoke up.
So, it really wasn't just him who noticed, Tristan thought to himself.
The number of Saxons currently around him were still fairly large, yet compared to what he had seen in the beginning, the current number was definitely smaller.
Noting the change in his mind, he didn't allow himself to be distracted.
He was leading a group of roughly three thousand cavalries while protecting the one thousand infantries behind them. Admittedly, his side had it easier as the Saxons focused more on Lancelot's right flank and the King who was boldly fighting at the front, but there was still a substantial number.
He readied his 'bow,' and yet from the perspective of a Master Archer, what he had in his hand was the furthest thing from a bow.
It was more of an instrument, possessing numerous strings notched to a bent wooden frame.
Failnaught, the bow whose arrows kill with the slightest motion of a finger.
Staring at the surrounding Saxons, Tristan let out a sigh atop his horse.
O misery, a ballad of sorrows offered to the grave.
His fingers plucked over the strings, producing a deep melody that flittered tenderly into one's ears.
Two steps forward, three.
And as the rabbit enters the hunter's gaze, the twilight is reached.
Now, let me play it for you.
A symphony of death.
A Requiem of a dream's end.
Failnaught, the bow whose strings released invisible sonic vacuum arrows into the air activated.
Net like distortions formed before arcs of blood came spewing forth from the nearest Saxons.
"M-Monster," the Saxons backed away in fear of the unknown, Failnaught's arrows unseen and unheard. "Shoot the arrows, shoot him now!"
Tristan kept his eyes half-lidded and stared disinterestedly. He plucked Failnaught's strings once more.
There would be no arrows.
The Archers aiming at Tristan fell to the ground one by one before the other Saxons chose to retreat and maintain a tight encirclement.
Although Tristan didn't show it, he was in fact, frowning.
Although Failnaught appeared to be a peerless magical weapon, it wasn't simple to use too frequently. It was taxing on his mind and his concentration to pinpoint the exact area's the sonic vacuum arrows would strike.
His head was already throbbing as he could no longer count the number of times, he had been forced to repel the Saxons and attack.
The situation was only worse for Lancelot and the King whose stamina would eventually be worn down as well.
Tristan knew that he had to break out. At least then he could lead his flank to pincer Lancelot's enemies before coming to the King's aid at the center.
The King himself had chosen to directly attack the leaders of the Saxons on an elevated piece of land. The King's path was brimmed full of corpses.
Forehead creased, Tristan gave his orders.
"Charge forward," he yelled, intent on breaking the Saxons encirclement, yet it was in that moment, that Tristan pulled on the reins of his horse and stilled.
W-Was that a hammer?
For an instant, Tristan could not believe what his eyes were telling him as he stared across at the sky. The resounding impact however, took away all of his doubt, but even then, he was left with more questions than answers.
Even more unbelievable was the fact that no sooner than when the hammer had impacted the ground, wave after wave of Saxons seemed to be in pursuit of a single 'horse?'
It was hard for him to make out due to the distance, but there was no way a normal human could run that fast.
Straining his eyes, he watched in shock as the Saxons were led passed two hills and never returned.
Following that, something unbelievable occurred.
Another army?
The thought entered his mind, and no matter how hard he blinked, the army that appeared from behind the hills didn't fade.
Far from being happy, a solemnity overtook his mind.
The King, although popular amongst the commoners and a select circle of aristocrats, was not popular with many of the nobility. The King's refusal to marry Guinevere, the daughter of Cywryd of Gwent, caused political tensions to spike. Many nobles even wished to see the King's death in favour of propping up a new King of their choosing.
Many of the Knight of the Round were resentful of this fact, and Tristan, a man who lived his life by his emotions was included in the bunch.
Human filth.
Tristan had no end to the insults he could give to such petty individuals and wished nothing more than to put them in their place. Yet it was a feat only one Noble House had the influence to achieve without repercussion.
The fact was, House Ashton was the tipping factor.
It was the breaking point that led to hostilities between the King and a faction of Aristocrats.
During a Noble's banquet, the matter of the King not being worthy of the death of the last descendant of the Ashton line was brought up. The result didn't end well. It was the first time, Tristan had ever seen the King voluntarily beat a person half to death with his fists alone.
It was a pivotal moment that proved to Tristan, that the King really did have emotions, only that they were buried within.
Cold faced, the King had left the banquet that day with an expression that others could not bare to look at.
The number of enemies the King had amongst the nobility wasn't small due to numerous failed political campaigns. Therefore, Tristan couldn't be sure that the emergence of a new army wasn't just another foe his King would have to deal with.
In his contemplation, the Saxons around him had attacked again, but they backed off in caution when he raised Failnaught's bow.
His attacks were practically unblockable. Every pluck of his finger taking away a life.
Tristan alone was the main deterrent that kept the knights under him alive, yet he was getting tired.
Gaze searching for any indication of the unknown army's affiliation, he first turned to inspect the Saxons to see if they recognized them, but from their stunned expressions, it was evident that they didn't.
Mind working on overdrive, he soon noticed something.
A rare smile crept its way up his lips despite the direness of the situation. After all, as an Archer he'd seen a peculiarity with his keen vision that instantly determined whether the new force was friend or foe.
It was a unique Coat of Arms belonging only to one.
A foul-mouthed barbarian who honestly believed his Coat of Arms to be terrifying.
A crowning achievement.
Mordred, Knight of the Round.
Ally.
That was all Tristan needed to know before taking action.
"Charge!" He ordered again, raising his voice to let it ride the wind.
With him at the front forming an arrowhead-formation, he charged in the direction of Palamid and the others who determined that they weakened the enemy enough for a full-on confrontation.
If Tristan could notice Palamid and the other's emergence, then Palamid could of course notice Tristan.
As if the two had coordinated with each other, Palamid led a charge from the back, thoroughly flanking the Saxons in the middle who were cut down like weeds. It was even more so because Tristan had lost his reservations in preserving his stamina.
His fingers continuously plucked Failnaught's strings, killing all who would impede his charge until the two armies met up and joined together.
In this case, the first individual Tristan met was a familiar face.
"Tristan," Mordred called out curtly.
"Mordred," Tristan replied back. "Did you gather this army? No," Tristan shook his head. "It doesn't matter if you did or not, we need to reinforce Lancelot's side and then aid the King."
Mordred grunted and didn't say anything else, only glanced at Tristan for a moment longer when she noticed him staring in awe at her Coat of Arms.
She had drawn it herself, of course it would be terrifying. Her back unknowingly straightened up in pride, but Tristan was hardly paying attention anymore.
He'd allow Mordred to believe what Mordred wanted to believe. If anything, Mordred's Coat of Arms looked adorable.
Shaking his head, Tristan was moments away from assessing Lancelot's situation when he noticed a scene that took his voice away.
He opened his eyes wide. "T-The King, the King's in trouble!"
Having charged directly towards the enemy leaders to occupy them to increase the chances of Lancelot and Tristan breaking out of the encirclement, the King stood alone fighting over a hill.
Initially, Arturia had no problems dealing with her predicament, but her exhaustion was catching up to her and making her movements sloppy.
The King needed help but was too far away and surrounded by too many enemies for anyone to come to her aid.
Palamid and the Son of Wolfred knew it.
Tristan knew it.
And so did Mordred.
"Fuck," Mordred cursed, uncaring for anything else as she ran forward and drew her sword. Yet she knew that no matter how hard she tried or fought, there was no way that she would be able to make it in time.
Yet was she just supposed to sit and watch as the one person she wanted to be acknowledge by get killed by her enemies?
She couldn't accept it.
Yet more than just Mordred, someone else was already taking the initiative.
Carried subconsciously by his own feet, for the first time in years, Shirou felt an emotion within him that he never had before as a blacksmith.
Rage.
Such unbridled rage that his face was the picture of fury.
The sight of the King's back, hunched over and burdened caused a part of his mind to snap when the King sustained wound after wound.
'I searched for you.'
'I searched and I searched and I searched, yet still you were nowhere.'
'With these hands that could hold nothing, would you still be waiting?'
"W-What are you doing?" Palamid's words entered his ears, but he completely ignored them as he charged into the Saxon's defensive lines.
The hammer in his hands was a literal blur as any Saxon who impeded his way was utterly reduced to paste.
As his anger swelled, the strength in his arms, the power in his legs reached levels unheard of.
'A wish to the stars. A miracle born from a deep yearning.'
His head began to ache with a pain that bordered on intolerable, yet even still. Even still-!.
Why was it that he couldn't stop?
There was no rationality in his actions- no logical trail of thought to be followed.
It was simply his instinct.
'To protect what was once lost at any cost.'
Before him was one of the many catapults the Saxons had brought in preparation for a siege. As the battle had devolved into an open confrontation, the catapults were rendered irrelevant and arranged at the back of the Saxon army.
Fine with him. He didn't care.
He already knew what he was going to do.
Dropping his hammer because it was too heavy, he looked around and picked up a common sword.
With the strength of a single hand, he pulled down the lever of the catapult and loaded himself into the bucket after setting the counter weight.
By this point, Palamid and the others in the distance knew exactly what he was intending on doing.
Mordred who was nearest to him quickly made her way over.
She didn't say anything, she didn't have to for him to understand her concerns. Yet now wasn't the time.
"You better not die, otherwise I-I swear that I'll take your corpse and use it as a shield," Mordred forced out.
He stared at her. "Are you tempting me right now?"
"S-Shut up! What kind of idiot are you?!" Mordred glowered at him. "Really, j-just don't die on me."
He patted Mordred's head and didn't say another word until he made direct eye contact with Mordred and nodded.
"Cut the rope!"
Mordred hesitated. If she was being honest with herself, both her worry for the King and Shirou were roughly equal. She didn't want to lose one over the other and was horrified at the prospect of losing both.
If the King couldn't be saved, then she'd rather Shirou not go.
She pursed her lips.
Yet seeing the look on Shirou's expression, her hesitation vanished.
The rope of the catapult snapped under her sword, prompting the mechanism to fire.
A human meteor sailing across the sky.
When was it that she had lost sight of it?
Perhaps it was when the only happiness in her life was torn away from her,
Arturia pulled the sword stabbed into her stomach directly out of her, Avalon's light healing her from all injuries even as she bore with the pain. Avalon was Excalibur's sheath bearing the property of potent healing across her body except for a critical strike to the brain.
Swords, spears, arrows, would constantly stab, cut, or pierce through her, yet she didn't care. She used only the bare minimum of movements to keep her head safe.
Hissing as a sword stabbed through her heart, she didn't even bat an eye before striking down her assailant.
"Y-You were stabbed in the heart," one of the Saxon commanders stuttered. "Y-You're not human."
She stood where she was, staring at the sword run through her. The pain was fresh on her mind, yet nothing compared to the pain of emptiness within her.
She once again pulled the sword from out of her and watched as it clattered to the ground. An instant later, Avalon healed the critical wound as if it had never been there.
'When you fight, you should fight to protect yourself.'
She was getting tired.
The more tired she got, the easier it was for past memories to resurface within her.
'Take better care of yourself, I'll always be there to help.'
Liar.
She swallowed the lump forming in her throat and engaged the enemy once more. She didn't care for her injuries as the pain helped dull her mind from the sadness within her.
Yet, exhaustion was slowly setting in. Her arms were limp, her breathing ragged. It was a miracle in and out of itself that she was still able to protect her head from sustaining any damage.
She contemplated firing another shot from Excalibur, but doing so would drain her to the point that she'd become unconscious. Her death would then be a certainty. Therefore, she held on, hoping that Tristan or Lancelot could deal with their enemies fast enough to come to her aid.
Unfortunately, as the hours dragged on, even she had her limits. Coupled with the fact that the only meal she had actually eaten in the past few days was the one Bedivere had provided, she had long since passed empty.
The scene that Tristan had noticed from the distance was the result of her body finally collapsing after weeks of fighting at the front.
No more. It's enough.
Having collapsed on the ground, the Saxon leaders didn't hesitate to stab her while she was down.
Legs.
Arms.
Chest.
She was literally pinned, but not a single yell escaped her mouth.
The pain of her heart was far greater than any physical pain.
To the utter shock of the Saxon leaders, she was still alive.
Avalon's potent healing was not to be underestimated, unless she suffered a fatal head injury, she was basically immortal. This was the reason why Merlin always insisted that the sheath was better than the sword.
In fact, she already knew that it probably had the means to save her from her predicament by activating Avalon's absolute defence, but a part of her didn't want to use it.
How long had she been enduring?
Day after day.
What was the point anymore?
She stared at the Saxon leaders expressionlessly, a hollowness in her eyes.
They stiffened in fear, thinking that she was cursing them. Instantly, one finally moved to strike her head.
She didn't even blink, her thoughts elsewhere.
Would she see him once again when next she opened her eyes?
Better yet, was someone like her who couldn't even protect those dear to her worthy enough?
It was the only thought in her mind.
The part of her that was actually wishing for death.
Then so be it.
She closed her eyes, yet abruptly opened them in the next instant.
It was a deafening crash, two feet forcibly digging into the ground and leaving behind thick trenches in their wake.
The dust and debris produced from the sudden impact struck the nearby Saxon leaders and forced them to back away. Meanwhile, the force of the landing, buffeted the area with a strong wind that dislodged the swords pinning Arturia to the ground. Almost immediately, Avalon used the opportunity to heal her injuries, yet the same could not be said for her stamina.
Shakily, she sat up then promptly stiffened, her breaths coming out erratically.
For the first time amidst a battlefield, she utterly lost her composure.
The brittle wall separating the fragility of her mind shattered beyond repair.
She was hyperventilating, a hand clutching tightly to her chest as she became fully aware that she was crying. She wanted to speak, to yell, but no words were coming from out of her mouth.
Her body was trembling.
It was a figure she dreamt of every night she forced herself to sleep.
Older now, yet still possessing the same bearings, a man was across from her; his back facing her as he stood protectively in front.
"I am your Knight.'
The memories from so long ago came flooding back like a tidal wave.
It was almost impossible to stop the sobs working their way up out of her throat, but she didn't dare let them out in fear that what was before was only a figment of her imagination.
Please.
Please.
She was pleading desperately, in her mind.
Shirou.
Her hand reached out, and in that moment when her quivering fingers touched solid skin, it was then that she knew that what was in front of her was real.
She hugged him in desperation, her face burying into the groove of his back and nuzzling up to his warmth.
He reacted at the sudden contact but she didn't care, the grip she had around him only tightening when he tried to shake her off.
Unfortunately, there was no way, he was going to be able to get her to let go of him again so easily.
He was real.
And that was all that mattered.
Thanks for Reading, and thanks to my newest patrons: Asi C, Sanguinius, Morgan R.C, Matthias D, and Lionlynx98!
Note: I probably should have turned back my clocks. I had one less hour than I thought I had today.
Next update: Hero and Sword
P a treon. com (slash) Parcasious