Fate-in time

51

W-What was the King doing?

From the instant Shirou had launched off of the catapult, Mordred's eyes had not left his figure despite the enemies quickly surrounding her.
For a moment, she couldn't believe what she was seeing, evidently, neither could Tristan as the man's slanted eyes actually widened in disbelief.
She didn't know what to feel or think, only that the enemies suddenly grew too numerous to prevent her from remaining distracted for much longer. She clicked her tongue and glowered, the expression of her face, growing taught with her frustration.
These Bastards.
If it weren't for all the Saxons around her, there was no way she would have considered launching Shirou out alone where she couldn't reach him or the King who seemed too exhausted to fight any longer.
Thoughts fraught with worry, it transmitted out of her as resentment for the obstacles barring her path forward. "Out of the way!" She yelled, striking out with her sword.
Tristan, Palamid, and the others followed after her yet the enemy was still too numerous to fight alone. Both Tristan and Palamid knew this fact with certainty, but neither could bring themselves to try reasoning with Mordred.
Palamid sighed and shook his head. As someone whose army Mordred had been assigned to, how could Palamid not understand her thoughts? There was no way she would listen given the current state of her mind.
Therefore, he could only wait for his chance either when Mordred eventually tired and collapsed, or when an opportunity arrived.
Palamid sighed once again, echoed by Tristan whose understanding of his fellow Knight was on par.
Meanwhile, the situation with the leaders of the Saxons was growing chaotic with Shirou at the center. His sudden arrival had disrupted everything to the point that no Saxon could wrap their mind around it.
He had come from the air.
Like a streak of lightning crashing down from the sky with the furor of an enraged beast.
To top it off, despite cratering the ground upon landing, not a trace of damage could be seen as the plume of dust and debris from the impact began to fall from the sky like rain.
The image the Saxons had of him at that moment suddenly aligned with the reports the Saxon War Chiefs had neglected to believe at first.
The emergence of the Mjolnir in enemy hands, and the red-haired warrior who wielded it.
"It's really true."
"It's him."
The Saxon War chiefs began whispering heatedly to each other, all hesitant to be the first to approach, yet Shirou didn't care.
What mattered to him at the moment, was that he could feel a part of himself subconsciously reacting to the individual whose arms were hugging so tightly onto him that he could not shake her off.
It was the King.
In the same way he'd been able to distinguish Mordred's gender based on the proportions of her armour, he had noticed the same details on the King as well.
The King was a woman.
For some reason, the discovery didn't affect him as much as he thought it would, rather, the pain in his head grew ever stronger.
'I am your Knight.'
His face twitched as he winced.
Enough. No more thinking.
He feared that if he contemplated the feeling inside him any longer, then he'd pass out from the agony of his mind snapping.
Worse, grief and distress were gradually building up inside him for reasons he could not presently explain.
The King wore a helmet, but even then, it was impossible for him not to hear the soft whimpers escaping her mouth- the trembling of her fingers and hands as they clutched onto the fabric of his attire filling him with wave after wave of remorse and sorrow.
Why was the King crying?
Why did her pain cause him such heartache?
He could not understand, yet what he could not remember, his body already knew.
He turned to face the King.
Almost subconsciously, his arms embraced her, pulling her close to his chest where he rested his chin over her shoulder, the scent of gooseberries wafting up his nose. His right hand moved up and cradled the back of her neck as the other drew cricles on her back.
For a moment, nothing seemed to exist aside from the two of them.
Beneath Arturia's helm, the neutrality of her face had long since broken. Her eyes were wet with tears, her cheeks puffed and containing a rosy hue. The feelings and emotions that she had been suppressing for so long were unable to be contained from the moment she understood that she wasn't dreaming.
He was in her arms.
"Ah," she gasped, the lump in her throat giving way. Her lips quivered as she pursed them to prevent herself from bawling out to no avail. Yet through it all, the warmth that she had not felt in years stood protectively around her; drawing her close and seemingly easing away all of the burdens that had accumulated over her back through her kingship.
Her Knight.
The sense of comfort caused her tension-taught body to relax, her exhaustion suddenly catching up to her as her eye-lids grew increasingly heavy.
No. NO, Not yet!
She fought with herself, but after years of eating only the bare minimum and constantly throwing herself into battle, the fatigue had accumulated substantially.
She fainted in Shirou's arms, her head bobbing downwards as her limbs grew limp.
Shirou himself was no longer thinking, lest he collapse. Therefore, his body moved on auto-pilot to position Arturia on his back before he regained clarity of his actions.
The entirety of the exchange had lasted for no more than a couple of seconds, and already the Saxon War Chiefs were inching closer after composing themselves. There was a gleam in their eyes as they stared at him with greed and avarice.
If they killed the current wielder of the Mjolnir, then wouldn't that mean it would be that much easier to claim the strongest weapon of Nordic belief?
"Say lad, you can't honestly believe that you can escape now that you've arrived here, can you?" One of the Saxons sneered in contempt.
The humans of the past when compared to those in the twentieth century, were far stronger in every aspect for they lived in an age of Heroes and Phantasmal Beasts.
Even for a person of Shirou's physical capabilities, the odds of triumphing over such a large army of Saxons wasn't high. Moreover, doing so while protecting the King on his back made it all the more difficult.
He didn't answer the Saxons provocation. It was simply a waste of energy.
The Saxon War Chiefs bristled, yet reeled in their anger.
From the reports given from the survivors of the battle near Exeter, the wielder of Mjolnir was not to be taken lightly. "Attack him together!"
The order was met with a round of agreement before all hell broke loose.
He could no longer count the number of times he was cut stabbed or pierced. With the durability of his skin, most of the damage he had sustained left only nicks and bruises which only fueled the Saxons killing intent further.
It didn't matter if he got hurt or wounded.
His anger spiked in the same way it had when he saw the King stabbed to the ground.
Touch her and you die!
No matter how many attacks came his way, he made sure that none reached the King. The fury he felt continued to mount.
Protect her.
Keep her safe.
Hold her.
The sword he had taken with him from the catapult had shattered after he had stabbed it clean through four Saxons at once, yet he was even fiercer without it.
Back off!
He clawed, hacked and pummeled, the strength of his fists sending grown men flying with every swing and striking fear into the enemy. No matter how many of them there were, the glare in his eyes never abated, it only grew fiercer.
He was panting, the muscles in his arms and legs groaning in protest as hundreds of sprawled bodies lay littered around him, their armours dented and torn, their chests caved in.
Silence descended down on the area.
He whose hands were soaked in blood, whose body was covered in tiny nicks and cuts, had the gaze of a monster.
The sight before the Saxons eyes was one that could not be imagined.
The wielder of the Mjolnir. A War God.
He who was chosen by the mighty hammer would in no way be simple.
Blood marred his skin, dyed him in the colours of violence and the battlefield, yet not one spec of red had landed on the King carried on his back.
A Hero.
A Legend.
Staring at the lone figure surrounded by thousands yet standing strong, the myths of adolescence converged to become reality that led to a single conclusion in the minds of all present. 'So, humans like this did exist.'
The Songs.
The Sagas.
It was the making of a new fable.
"Kill him, kill him now!" The Saxon War Chiefs suddenly had ill premonitions. Rather than just the Mjolnir, if the man before their eyes was allowed to live, then only tragedy would remain for the Saxons.
They'd heard it before. The tale of the Shield of Ireland, defending the country singlehandedly. If such myths were believed to be true, then the man opposing them had to die.
For his bearings, his disposition, and actions-
They were reflective of what was known as a Hero.
"Attack!"
The battle recommenced, the Saxons swarming once more as Shirou considered his options.
He needed to run.
There was no way he could handle the sheer number of opponents flocking towards him with just his stamina alone. Already he was panting under his breath, his lungs feeling as if they were on fire.
Despite the fear he was festering within the hearts of the Saxons, his current appearance did not inspire much confidence from his allies.
The blood of his enemies covered him profusely, making it impossible for Palamid and the others to tell whether he was inured or not. Worse, his haggard appearance entered the eyes of the one he'd rather not have seen him in such a sorry state.
He could see Mordred and the others desperately trying to make their way towards him, but with the sheer number of enemies separating them, there was no way that they could succeed easily. Worse, he could tell that Mordred was disregarding her safety. Attacks that she could have spent the effort dodging or parrying were carelessly left alone to increase her speed forward. Her panic evident.
Her injures were mounting by the second, and she didn't even look like she noticed based on the franticness of her eyes. No. Rather than not notice, it was more like she didn't care.
I don't want to lose you.
I refuse- I Refuse- I REFUSE!
He could practically read what she was thinking.
Yet as much as her sentiments warmed his heart, the worry she was causing him left him in a state of agitation. "GO BACK!" He yelled with all his might, startling Mordred who froze in place after cutting down an enemy.
She pursed her lips beneath her helm, unwillingness exuding from her in waves. She was hesitating, the hands holding the hilt of her sword paling at her knuckles.
At the face of his words, she just stood there in a state of inner turmoil, yet couldn't she understand?
If you don't like the sight of me getting hurt, then don't you think I wouldn't want to see you hurt either?
"DAMN IT MORDRED GOOO!" He parried a blow with his forearm, the edge of a sword grating irritably against his skin as he adjusted the King's position on his back.
More and more Saxons quickly surrounded him, blocking him from view as Mordred's concern became palpable. Her teeth were grinding together so hard that the sound was audible to those around her. She was shaking, her anxiety over the situation mounting as the trust she had with Shirou stood at an impasse against her better judgement.
For the first time in her life, Mordred discovered what it felt like to be helpless.
"D-Damn it, f-fuckin shit. T-This isn't fair," her voice continued to break as she spoke; a combination of the indecision and adrenaline coursing through her blood making her stand on edge. Even the grip she had over her sword began to tremble.
It was a side of Mordred that Tristan had never seen before as he used Failnaught to prevent the enemies from attacking Mordred in her daze. Moreover, William Orwell and the other Knights defended her with all their might, yet still, their numbers were falling fast.
They could not keep up the pace, and even Tristan was overtaxing himself to persevere.
"GOOOO!" Shirou's voice rang out again in the chaos, stopping Mordred from thinking for another moment longer.
Pulled by the arm, she was dragged away into retreat by Palamid before she even realized it, allowing Shirou who noticed to sigh in relief. There were too many enemies, Palamid and the others had to find another way to help rather than blindly charging forward.
With Palamid leading Mordred away, the Saxons that had been defending against Mordred's charge suddenly had the opportunity to join forces with the Saxon War Chiefs and attack him.
The sudden turn of events had Mordred struggling frantically to break free of Palamid's grip, but she was forcibly knocked out by Tristan who knew that Mordred's recklessness would only make the situation worse.
"For what it's worth, sorry," Tristan apologized as he caught Mordred with his arm and hoisted her onto his horse.
"B-Bastard," Mordred muttered out before her eyes fluttered closed.
Tristan quickly rode away with the rest of the army, choosing to attack from the flank to rendezvous with Lancelot and Bedivere.
It was because of Tristan's prompt actions that Shirou saw hope.
Unlike Tristan and Palamid who were too far away for him to reach, the flank led by Lancelot and Bedivere was less crowded as the initial appearance of Palamid's army had diverted the Saxons formations.
There was no more time to waste, he took off in a sprint, charging through anyone in front of him.
His knees buckled beneath him, his legs trembling at the thighs.
All the while, the weight he felt on his back spurred him forward.
The wish that was once made.
The dream he had aspired towards.
To lose it again, he wouldn't tolerate it. No, he couldn't.
Thoughts echoed within his ears as if he was hearing himself talk. Of oaths and convictions.
Swords, shields, spears, arrows, they struck him one after the other. He didn't even move to defend himself as his arms were too preoccupied with keeping the King safe on his back.
If Mordred saw his current state, even if he called himself 'durable,' he would not be able to get her to laugh. The pallor of her face would shift to a deathly white.
Thinking of Mordred now, she'd probably hold a grudge against Tristan for striking her.
He laughed mirthlessly, the bleakness of the situation affecting him more than he thought.
Why was he working do hard?
He could hear the soft breaths of the person he was carrying over his back.
He could feel her warmth.
Her trust.
Keep her safe.
Keep her safe.
The words kept repeating in his ears.
The swords that struck him, the weapons that maimed him, none of them mattered as he directly shoved his way forward.
The Saxons eyes widened.
One, then two, then, three.
Six.
Ten.
Twenty.
One against many. He alone, forced his way through the enemies constantly gathering around him with the brute strength of a lone Dragon.
The determination to stand out on top.
To remain impassive against the odds and retain one's grace and bearings.
The magic core within his chest thrummed to life.
Pride. Honour. Selfishness. That was a Dragon.
The ideals of the Evil Dragon of Fable, Fafnir.
The blood he had bathed in, and the blood that had seeped into his skin in the past reacted as a catalyst that triggered the strength of his natural bloodline.
Lord Ashton of Sundering Flames.
Fire erupted around him, forming the visage of a reptile before exploding and propelling him forward.
By the time he realized what had happened, he had ended up directly at the location where Bedivere and Lancelot were fighting, and that was enough. Eyelids heavy, he noticed Lancelot staring at him in shock before his vision blacked out, and he collapsed, the King cradled in his arms.
Lancelot stared at Shirou before staring out at the burning aftermath he had left behind.
Men were screaming, the fires unable to be put out as if they were alive. More importantly, when the fires made contact with the King and Shirou himself, the temperature became lukewarm.
The Saxons were in a state of confusion and disarray.
Now was the chance.
The Shirou of Lancelot's memories had left the biggest impression on him. The swordsmanship he had seen and the sheer splendor had inspired him to become a Knight. Seeing Shirou again, the admiration he had once felt swelled once more.
Without hesitation, he saddled Shirou onto his horse and carefully had the King placed alongside Bedivere.
"Retreat!" Lancelot ordered all Knights in his flank.
Due to Shirou's distraction, Palamid and Tristan successfully rendezvoused with Lancelot and Bedivere before the combined armies pierced through the encirclement.
"No! Don't let them get away!" The Saxon War Chiefs yelled frantically.
The Saxons armies formed up at the urging of their leaders and quickly gave chase on their horses, the ground shaking under the weight of thousands of hooves.
The expressions of Lancelot and Tristan who were leading the retreating army soured. They knew the area from the reports their scouts had given them prior. There was no place for them to take refuge in anywhere near the vicinity.
When the horses eventually tired, there was no longer any means in avoiding a battle.
Both Tristan and Lancelot were aware of this fact, and so too did the Saxon leaders.
The only one whose expression remained neutral was Palamid and the Son of Wolfred who pulled forward and took the lead in directing the escaping army.
In the eyes of the Saxon leaders, there was nowhere for Palamid and the others to escape to. Therefore, they did nothing to stop Palamid from abruptly leading the army south until it was too late.
By the time the Saxon leaders realized that something was wrong, there was nothing that they could do anymore after they passed the peak of the closest hill and saw what was in front of them.
They all stood in place in dumbfounded. There before their eyes was a steel structure flying a unique Coat of Arms at every exterior wall segment.
It was a castle of steel built in a place where there was originally nothing.
"Impossible," the Saxons murmured.
This was part of the plan Shirou had devised to give Mordred larger merits. The current timeline did not have the concept of modular fortresses. By building individual pieces of metal and fortifications which could be transferred by supply wagons, a castle could be built in a night.
Before Palamid and the Son of Wolfred had led the army to assist the King, Castle 'Mordred' was built first.
The steel walls barring the Saxons path were daunting, more so when Lancelot led his Knights in and manned the watch posts.
Caught unprepared, the Saxon leaders could only order for the remaining Saxons to reluctantly set up camp before devising a strategy.
With the sudden emergence of Castle Mordred, the entire war effort between the two armies fell into another stalemate. With the advantage of walls, it was easier for Bedivere to set up adequate defenses to prevent the Saxons from scaling or battering the gates.
Originally, the Saxons possessed catapults that could end the current ceasefire, but when the Son of Woflred had noticed said catapults by Shiruo's actions, he had thoroughly destroyed them. Meanwhile, the Saxons that had been eying the hammer Shirou left behind were bound to be disappointed as Emily used her magecraft to safely transport the Saxons holy relic away.
After all, it was simply too important to leave behind.
Emily didn't say anything before, but the more Saxons took notice of the hammer, the more faith and legend were accumulated towards the hammer.
She had been making a guess, but it was quite likely that if enough time passed, Shirou's hammer may very well become a Noble Phantasm related to his numerous feats throughout Britain. It would become a weapon that couldn't be left behind lightly, so no matter how much Shirou insisted that it was just a unique hammer, she would adamantly correct him.
In the current ceasefire, Lancelot and the others settled into the rooms within Castle Mordred to rest.
This was the same for everyone, but unexpectedly, the one that should have been resting the most was the first to wake up.
Her worries for her brother Kay, and the mess of her emotions, rousing her up from slumber earlier than expected.
Arturia groggily blinked her eyes open.
She was in the King's chambers within the steel castle and was laid gently over a hastily made hay bed and feather pillow. The comfort her body felt as she rested for the first time in years gave her the sensation of bliss. However, the feeling didn't last long before her eyes dilated and she sat up frantically.
She was in bed.
She had been sleeping.
Denial quickly made its way through her as she shuddered. A-A dream?
She swallowed the lump forming in her throat while the beating of her heart echoed within her ears. She refused to believe it.
Frantically, she jumped out of bed her eyes darting back and forth nervously as she bit down on her lower lip. It was evident that she wasn't in the castle she was used to, so, therefore, it couldn't have been a dream!
Mind bolstered with the thought, she became even more distraught when she couldn't immediately notice his presence near her. Fortunately, it didn't take her long before she noticed the figure laying on another bed behind a curtain of the room.
Lancelot had been the one to arrange her accommodations, and with her feelings in mind, the unconscious Shirou was laid to rest on another bed near her.
She approached him cautiously, her nerves on tenterhooks. Ever since she believed Shirou had died, the fragility of her mind had always been something that Merlin secretly lamented about.
'If you push yourself too hard, one day you too will burn out like the distant stars.'
'Bitterness is not an emotion I enjoy partaking in, yet even I find myself unable to change the current situation.'
She reached a hand out, the memories of her youth flooding her mind. From the beginning at the wheat fields, to their adventures, to his love for her, and her love for him, she could never forget.
"I love you," she spoke the words she'd repressed for so long while crouching down by Shirou side where she stared at him in a silent stupor.
Age had increased her maturity and her understanding of her own self.
Her gaze was literally shining. "I love you, I love, I love you," she repeated, each repetition growing stronger. She was clinging onto him, her face pressed her onto his chest as she sniffled. Her hands clasped onto his, her fingers interweaving with his own as she gripped lightly.
If she had her way, she would have stayed in the same position for hours, yet Kay's circumstances and the condition of her Knights still worried her. Besides, her ears perked up at the sound of someone entering the room.
"You're awake," Palamid's voice resounded, probably noticing that she was no longer in her bed.
Arturia stiffened. She quickly pulled away from Shirou and schooled her facial features before making her appearance. "The condition of the army?" She was quick to ask in concern.
The many Knights that had followed under her were all loyal and dutiful people of her country.
"Many are injured, but most are alive within this castle," Palamid reported while taking a knee. It was the mannerism befitting of nobility. More so when he was in the presence of his King.
"Rise," Arturia said while nodding to Palamid's words. She didn't know where the castle had come from yet, but she was just thankful the predicament wasn't as large as she had believed.
She stared at Palamid long and hard for the better most part of a full minute, her mind working on overdrive. In regards to Shirou, the only one who could have found and brought him to her was Palamid who led a new army to support her. "Thank you," she bowed, forsaking her status as a King.
Her actions were a direct representation of the gratitude she felt within herself.
However, Palamid would not take her thanks. "Don't thank me," he denied politely. "Finding him wasn't my merit at all."
She rose a brow, her expression curious and free from the dark clouds that had once marred her natural beauty. "Then whose? I will reward them an entire fief and keep them free of taxes and tariffs for life."
She sounded utterly serious to Palamid's ears. He grinned in response.
"You already now this person well," Palamid recalled the sheer tenacity Mordred always displayed: Mordred's fierce loyalty and admiration for the King. In truth, despite Mordred's recklessness, his opinion on Mordred was quite praise worthy.
Not taking Palamid's words to heart, Arturia urged Palamid on.
"That makes it even better. Go on, tell me who it is," Arturia walked up to a desk and produced a piece of paper from the small drawer, intent on writing down the recipient's name with a quilt so that she wouldn't forget.
Noticing Arturia's straight forward behaviour, Palamid inwardly congratulated one of the brashest Knights that had ever served under him in his campaigns. Perhaps now the King would finally acknowledge all the efforts put in.
"It's Sir Mordred," Palamid said with pride. "That Knight has worked really hard, so its pleasant that those efforts are finally rewarded."
Arturia's expression blanched, the quilt in her hands dropping to the ground. "Oh," she drew in a sharp breath as she picked up the quilt.
Mordred?
It was Mordred?
For a moment, she didn't know what to feel. In regards to Mordred, the relationship between them was 'complicated.'
The matters concerning Guinevere happened differently than they would have had in another timeline. For instance, Arturia flat out refused the marriage proposal and had not even met Guinevere before. As such, Mordred's conception occurred in an entirely different fashion. Yet regardless, one fact was still true.
Mordred and Arturia were related.
It wasn't as if she couldn't see the genuine efforts Mordred was putting in for her cause, yet the fact that Morgan was her mother made it extremely difficult for her to accept Mordred.
Silence descended in the room before Arturia resolutely penned Mordred's name down.
Private matters and official matters would always be kept separate.
Moments later, she found it odd that Palamid hadn't left yet after delivering his message. Rather than looking at her, Palamid was instead looking towards Shirou while hesitating. A sense of foreboding suddenly took root within her. "What is it? What's wrong?" she pressed, putting away her quilt and paper.
Palamid hesitated, yet eventually came to a decision.
"There's still something I have to tell you," he said before changing his mind. After all, he wasn't the best suited for the topic. "Actually, there's something Emily needs to discuss with you."
Arturia raised a brow, and by the time Emily was brought into the room and explained everything, Arturia's face had become pale. The strength in her legs nearly gave way, and if not for her fortitude she may have dropped to her knees.
"H-He doesn't remember?" She was hyperventilating, her breaths coming out unevenly.
Both Emily and Palamid nodded their heads.
"I've had my Knights look into Shirou's situation after his memory loss." Palamid spoke up. "It turns out that he thought himself to be an ordinary blacksmith at Exeter after being saved from the distant woods."
The more Palamid explained, the more Arturia's heart began to drop to her stomach, anguish building up within her.
"Mordred found him and somehow convinced him to follow her. Since then he's joined the army as Sir Mordred's faithful Knight," Palamid concluded.
She stiffened. "W-What did you just say?"
It was the final straw.
Palamid furrowed his brows, feeling that he wasn't understanding some deeper meaning, yet he didn't dare hold back information. "He has become Mordred's Knight and he even calls himself Mordred's Shield without an ounce of hesitation."
Emily took note of the growing ambiguity in the air and subtly nudged Palamid who promptly shut up. However, it was too late.
The light in Arturia's eyes dimmed, the pallor of her complexion falling rapidly.
'Shirou was her Knight!'
She knew what Mordred looked like beneath her helm, and if what Emily had said was true, then maybe Shirou was mistaking Mordred for herself?
In terms of memory loss, sometimes only a trigger was needed. Mordred's face was near identical to hers and with no name to recall, the possibility was high.
The more she considered the notion, the more convinced she became after she forced Palamid to detail the events of the journey from Exeter.
By the time Palamid finished his report, he realized that something was wrong even without Emily reminding him. "My King, is there something-"
"Dismissed," Arturia's tone was forceful.
Palamid furrowed his brows and opened his mouth to protest, yet Arturia would have none of it. "DISMISSED," she repeated again, this time, unable to hide the restlessness in her words.
Emily placed a hand on Palamid's shoulder and shook her head.
"Let's go," Emily whispered prudently. "The Son of Wolfred is still waiting for us."
Palamid silently nodded his head, taking one last look at Arturia before he and Emily left.
Long after Palamid and Emily were dismissed, Arturia began pacing back and forth, not letting anyone into the room.
Her thoughts were in a mess, her emotions in turmoil.
What did they mean he couldn't remember!
The thought that she alone was the only one who could recall the times they spent together was suffocating. It couldn't be true, she couldn't accept it.
The Saxons outside, the current dilemma of the army, all other problems were banished as her mind consciously excluded anything else that could distract her.
Calm. Keep calm.
She schooled her features. There was nothing to be gained by panicking.
She remembered the explanation Emily had given to her that Shirou himself could regain his memories by recalling strong emotions related to those memories. However, the problem was, which memories had the most impact?
To her, all of the memories she had with Shirou were precious. To specifically pick one out of the many was a difficult endeavor. If possible, she wanted to show all of them.
Their childhood.
Their young adolescence.
All of the moments that they shared must have been cherished by him as well.
'Your dreams are my dreams, and your hopes are mine as well,' The words that he had said to her in the past played endlessly in her head.
Despite being caught up with her musings, not once had her eyes left Shriou's form. Therefore, when she noticed that he was awakening, she ran directly to him, a part of her hoping that what Emily and Palamid had said wasn't true.
Shirou's face scrunched up, his eyelid's twitching as his consciousness gradually returned from his state of fatigue. It was then that he felt a presence near him, a side effect of his body's accumulated life-experiences reacting.
He immediately blinked his eyes open in weariness only to be met by a familiar face hovering directly over his own.
"…Mordred?" the name left his mouth in a disorientated mumble, yet it was enough to enter the ears of the person in front of him.
It clearly wasn't what Arturia had been expecting. She staggered back as if visibly struck, her earlier conjecture solidifying in her mind.
There was an air of desperation and grief in her that Shirou could not explain. Staring at her, the feelings of familiarity intensified until it reached a point even greater than when he looked directly at Mordred.
'Arturia.'
The name whispered itself into his ears with his own voice.
His head began to ache, a hand clutched over his temples.
Suddenly, Arturia's hands placed themselves over his shoulders in his daze.
"I-I'm the real one!" She yelled hoarsely as if deeply afraid that he would not understand her meaning. "ME, it's ME!"
Her insistence only served to confuse him as well as deliver an unintended additional effect.
He passed out from the unbearable pain in his head, a world of swords appearing before him.
All the while, Arturia pursed her lips in silence.
Utterly unable to maintain her calm any longer.
-Short excerpt from a certain 'what if' scenario.
He stared at her face, and then to her chest,
At the ginormous mounds greeting his eyes and then to the image of the woman in his head.
Only one question needed to be asked as his mind blanked.
"Who are you?"
Thanks for reading, and thanks to my newest patrons: Cesar Torres, Santiago S, Benny Y, Alex K, and lord Sirzy!
Author's note: O God, Exam prep is killing me.
Next update: Fate Kill
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