บท 52: Chapter 52
The bronze coloured sky, the ash covered ground of a rustic hue denoted by patches of green, he'd seen them all before.
As Shirou once again found himself within a world of swords, his first reaction was not panic nor anxiety, it was simply curiosity. As a blacksmith, he was marveling at the works of art before his eyes. Weapons of myth and legend unable to be found, all gathered together in a single domain.
He took a step forward, before he suddenly paused.
He felt a connection to the earth beneath his feet and the air around him. It was almost as if the forces that made up the current space were pooling into him all at once, like water filling a crevice.
Baffling as it may have seemed to him, he knew that his thoughts and actions could directly impact his surroundings.
Wisp like trails of ether unseen to the naked eye stemmed from his very being, and with a simple gesture of his fingers, the swords around him began to vibrate in low hums. Steel left rusted and worn by time, one by one began to shed the layers of dust that had piled upon them over years of inactivity.
Tassels hung from ornate pommels began to dance in a sudden breeze, the shades of grey that denoted the fuller of a sword's shaft pulsating with an energy that beckoned them forward.
In an instant, the sounds of clinking and clattering echoed endlessly as sword after sword dislodged themselves from the rust-coloured dirt and gravel.
They hovered in the air all around him, before coming to a stop when he lowered his hand.
It was an armory whose weapons had long since been ready to be deployed, and he, the blacksmith of the forge.
'Have withstood pain to create many weapons, yet these hands will never hold anything.'
A cold voice, his voice, in an eerie monotone.
'Striving forward towards a beaten path, day by day finding nothing.'
The monolithic gears over the broad horizon began to turn, layers of grime and soot forming thick clouds of black that gradually and oppressively rained downwards.
Suddenly he could see it. A distant memory of a man who traversed countless battlefields for the sake of an ideal that could not be accomplished. He did not care for praise, nor honours. The naivety of youth replaced by an unsettling indifference and the constant need to save others.
It was his promise.
That one day in the midst of his constant betrayals, disappointments, and hells, that his perseverance would lead to a miracle.
A Garden in the middle of nowhere.
Therefore, it didn't matter what others thought of him or how many times he began to doubt.
'Always searching, never faltering.'
It was the one belief that Shirou Emiya adamantly held onto.
The sound of the dirt crunching beneath his feet alerted him to the fact that he had fallen into a daze. He shook his head and tried to gather his thoughts into something that made sense, but was utterly defeated in his endeavor.
Meanwhile, the swords around him steadily began planting themselves back into the ground until the entire space returned to a tranquil calm.
He breathed in and out, his lips twisting into a frown. It had been five years since he'd last considered the truth behind his memories, but now he was certain that he had no choice but to face them.
He simply could not deny the connection he had with the world around him and what he had seen any longer.
That was him.
He was sure of it.
Then what was it that had made him so determined in the past?
It was in that moment of self-reflection, that he once again took notice of a woman panting heavily in the distance. She was pale, her form thin and gaunt as if she'd had no rest for years, yet even still, the way she continued persisting with her arms stretched forward revealed her determination.
The magic sigils and runes spread around her in a circle were dim with parts on the verge of breaking. With each sigil that slowly died out, the pallor of the woman's complexion paled further while the haze she was containing proliferated.
Without even assessing her up close, it was clear what the outcome was going to be should she continue.
She wouldn't last.
Last time, he hadn't been able to help her, but this time surely.
He walked toward her, the woman so weakened that she hardly even noticed his approach until he was right beside her and slinging her arm over his shoulders to support her.
She was stunned, her head turning to stare at him in abject shock. To be honest, he wouldn't have minded her attention as much if it didn't look as if she wanted to pummel him in the next instant.
The urge to curse his misfortune stirred from within him, but at least the woman seemed able to contain her irritation.
It was then that a name came to mind.
Agatha.
She sighed. "You finally came," she mouthed out the words wearily, dropping all of her pretenses. At any other time, she may have had boasted about her endurance and gloated over how much was owed to her, but right now she was just too exhausted to care.
He rose a brow in response to Agatha's words, and chose to ignore them for the time being to stare worriedly at her. Yet all he got in return was a glare as Agatha quickly shifted her face away, unable to deal with someone being concerned on her behalf.
Learn to read the situation! Agatha couldn't help but complain inwardly. Any thoughts of trying to get even with him leaving her mind as her body fell limp.
Just by looking at Shirou's face, she was certain that he couldn't recall her, but that was only natural given that she was safeguarding his memories.
"Listen, Ashton," she said, turning her head back to stare at him. "I need your help. That cloud up there needs to be destroyed and only you can do it."
Shirou glanced at Agatha before shifting his attention towards the cloud before him.
Presently, he had no idea who Agatha was, but at the same time, did it matter? It was never wrong to help someone in need, and from how haggard Agatha appeared, there was no way he could just simply watch.
"What do I need to do?" He asked.
For the first time in years, Agatha's lips curled upwards into a smile as she recalled her first encounter with Shirou. Memory loss or not, some things never change.
She closed her eyes, and when she opened them again, her pupils radiated with a dull red luster. "Look within yourself Ashton, and at the world of steel around. Even without my guidance, you already know the answer to that question."
Shirou swallowed, his brows furrowing before he stared at his open palm.
Agatha's gaze urged him on.
Clearly, she was referring to what had happened earlier, when the swords moved to his will.
There was no doubt in his mind that if he put in the effort, he could replicate a similar scene.
Agatha was depending on him, and even now the magic seal she was maintain was fracturing visibly. There was no time to wait or reconsider.
He might as well get started.
His hand clenched, and in the next moment, the energy of reality coursed through him.
"Trace. On." The words subconsciously left his mouth, the magic core within him activating in full.
Sword after sword took to the air, all ready and poised towards the dark clouds that blotted out the sky while Agatha finally closed her eyes and passed out to rest.
LINE BREAK
Within Castle Mordred, and inside one of its smaller guest rooms where the Knights and soldiers were stationed to rest, a commotion was steadily wearing itself out.
"He's safe?" Mordred let out a breath of relief. From the moment that she had regained consciousness, anxiety and worry quickly assailed her when she found herself surrounded by her personal Knights and Shirou not within sight.
Of course, she had reacted instantly, trying to force her way out of the room with or without consent in a bid to get answers. However, as she was still injured and should be recuperating, the field doctors assigned to treat the injured refused to let her go.
Yet who was Mordred? She didn't give a damn about other people's thoughts on her condition and directly sucker punched the doctors trying to impede her into unconsciousness. The whole situation only escalated further when Bedivere tried to mediate and was directly defeated with a well aimed kick that took the man's soul away.
The Knights under Bedivere's command retaliated, but even then, Mordred was still part of the Round Table and boasted formidable fighting capability. They simply couldn't restrain her, and it wasn't until William Orwell and the other Knights intervened that the situation began to die down.
William Orwel who was being strangled under Mordred's hands was blue-faced and wondering if it was a greater mercy to pass out. However, considering the contrast Mordred was showing between concerned and relieved, maybe it was all worth it?
"He's safe?" Mordred pressed William for an answer again, her grip tightening around the cuffs of his shirt.
William spluttered, trying to force the words out before Mordred worked herself up too much and accidently killed him. "Yes, yes for the last time he was taken to rest somewhere else by Sir Lancelot!"
Mordred's grip finally released, her hands placing themselves over her chest to ease the panic she had been feeling since the beginning. She breathed in and out until she composed herself enough to realize the mess that she had made around her.
Bedivere was curled up pitifully by the corner, and a full team of medics and Knights were sprawled unconscious on the hard floor. Inwardly, she was feeling guilty, but outwardly, she crossed her arms and reasoned with herself that it was their fault for trying to pick a fight with her.
Mordred's perspective of the situation was quite different from everyone else involved.
What kind of honourable Knight beats down on people who were only trying to help?
Many of the people unconscious would later feel wronged, but Mordred would insist that she was justified.
William in comparison was too busy relishing in the feeling of fresh air through his lungs to comment on Mordred's behaviour. Even if wasn't preoccupied, he knew better than to speak up anyway.
Her happiness was enough.
It almost felt to William that he was taking care of a bratty little sister who was unable to express herself well enough to be understood. The others who swore loyalty to Mordred probably felt the same way.
To begin with, Mordred could have just tried explaining her urgency to Bedivere and the others, but she was too anxious to bother, ending up with the current scenario.
"He's fine, they said he's fine. Everything's okay if he and the King are fine," Mordred muttered to herself, the tension leaving her body as she straightened her back.
The next thing to preoccupy her mind however was what the King would think about the merits she'd achieved. Shirou had helped her plenty and there was no way that her contributions couldn't be acknowledged.
A part of her felt traces of anticipation, but a greater part of her was filled with self doubt bred from her insecurities. In the past, no matter what merit she had achieved, the King had only ever glanced at her for a second longer.
Maybe this time would be the same?
The thought caused her to flinch, but there was no more leeway to consider anything.
The commotion she had caused had taken up the better most part of the afternoon, and word was spreading around that the King was calling for an audience.
As a Knight of the Round, she had to attend.
The topic of discussion was most likely regarding the plan to combat the Saxons surrounding the castle. In the time that had passed, more and more Saxons had converged on the location, completely locking it down. However, the castle was stocked full of ample provisions and water to keep the castle occupied for at least two months, therefore, she wasn't too worried.
Everything was in part due to Shirou. With everyone calling him Lord Ashton in Bristol, the number of people and food that Palamid was able to secure for the new army soared exponentially.
The sheer number of craftsmen that came along allowed for the rapid development of Castle Mordred.
An exhilarating feeling of self-satisfaction assailed her when she remembered how Shirou had insisted that the castle of steel be named after her, but she digressed.
She needed to leave now if she wanted to arrive for the King's summons in time.
Giving one last glance behind her, William Orwel nodded at her to go while he dealt with the aftermath.
She felt gratitude for his actions, but didn't quite know how to convey it, so she just grunted and left. Sometimes, she found herself believing that everything that had happened in her recent life was all just a dream.
At most, it had only been a couple of weeks since she was still a lone Knight with no one willing to fight by her, and now, she had a whole platoon of Knights who were increasingly tolerant of her.
It really was hard to believe.
Unwittingly, a smile crept up her face as she went on her way through Castle Mordred's interior to the reception room.
The reception room was rather plain due to a lack of time to build anything more complex. It had four steel walls shaped into a box-like shape with small windows to let in light. At the center was a simple throne where a red carpet was placed and rolled out to divide the room between left and right.
From the moment Mordred stepped foot through the doors, she felt a penetrating gaze land on her. It was so intense that it felt like it could literally rip a whole through her.
She tensed immediately, but became dumbfounded as she couldn't locate the source of the stare. The only ones currently in the room were Lancelot, Tristan, and the King who sat at the main throne.
Lancelot wasn't one to be so intrusive, and Tristan had even less reason to stare at her with such scrutiny. Instead, it was she who should be glaring at Tristan for knocking her out with a sneak attack in the middle of battle.
With Tristan and Lancelot eliminated from the equation, the only one left was the King. Yet that was even more unlikely as Mordred never knew the King to break character. When dealing with both public and personal matters, Mordred had never seen the King's expression shift from its neutral calm.
There was no way that the King was the one who had leveled such a vicious gaze on her.
Thoughts running rampant in her mind, she quickly bowed and took her place on the right of the throne, standing across from Lancelot and Tristan who stood by the left.
Moments later, the rest of the Knights occupying the castle made their entrance, standing in line on either side of the throne using Mordred and Lancelot as examples.
While the Knights lined themselves neatly, Lancelot furrowed his brows from his position.
"Where's Bedivere?" He whispered discreetly to Tristan. "He should know better than to miss the King's summons as an official Knight."
Tristan glanced at Mordred at the corner of his eyes and didn't know how he should respond tactfully. On the way to the reception room, he had overheard a couple of Knights talking about Bedivere's injury in the early morning and the person responsible.
"He had an accident that requires him to sit down for quite some time," Tristan finally replied in the end.
Lancelot raised a brow. "I've seen him stabbed in the battlefield and still he remains diligent to the King. What could have possibly happened?"
Tristan coughed awkwardly. "It was quite an unfortunate accident. I'm considering dedicating a ballad to his sorrow."
"…" Lancelot didn't reply, he could tell that Tristan wasn't joking so he chose to drop the matter. Besides, now that everyone had gathered, the King was going to speak.
The room fell silent.
"The Saxons have completely surrounded the area, does anyone have any thoughts on how we should proceed?" The King's voice was calm, but inwardly, the Saxons were the last people on her mind.
Arturia was having difficulties. Her gaze would constantly land on Mordred, before a bitterness would erupt within her that caused her to clench her jaw tightly.
I'm the real one.
It's me!
I met him first.
It was impossible for her to think straight anymore, and looking at Mordred only made it worse.
As such, Arturia had no choice but to bring up the matter regarding the Saxons for her Knights to handle since she currently couldn't even trust herself not to lash out.
The Son of Wolfred was the first to speak. "About this matter, if possible, I'd like you to put your trust in us," he said.
As the Son of Wolfred stepped forward, so too did Emily and Palamid who bowed lightly in greeting. "As you know, we've already made plans during the army's stay in Bristol," Palamid spoke up. "Most of what we need to do has already been accomplished. Furthermore, we sent a messenger to inform Merlin of our current location. All we have to do now is wait for further reinforcement while defending."
The Knights in attendance began murmuring to each other in quiet whispers.
Palamid said defending, but the number of personnel able to man Castle Mordred's defences were far too few to manage.
In which case, it was Emily who alleviated the people's concerns.
"Lord Ashton has provided insight on how to carry out certain tactics in a defensive battle," Emily admitted.
Although Shirou hadn't been able to recall many things of his past, he did know bits and pieces which he had shared for Palamid's use.
Emily's words were met with heavy approval, and even Arturia straightened her posture from where she was sitting. She thought back to the many things Shirou was capable of and remembered how he possessed a type of wisdom and knowledge that left even Merlin tongue-tied.
This was the benefit Shirou had as a person who came from the future.
Hearing the hearty waves of acknowledgment from the crowd, the only ones who weren't entirely convinced were Mordred and Tristan.
Tristan was a man who'd never met the famous Lord Ashton, and Mordred was just plain skeptical.
Mordred knew that Palamid and the others were referring to Shirou, the blacksmith that she had found in Exeter.
Mordred's expression beneath her helmet became strange, but she didn't voice out any complaints despite the urge to correct everyone's view points.
She held herself back because she trusted Shirou, and that was all that mattered to her.
"Very well," Arturia was quick to approve of the Son of Wolfred's request, and with the main concern dealt with, all that was left were rudimentary announcements.
One by one, the occupants of the room began leaving until the area became nearly empty.
By the time Mordred turned to leave, her disappointment was evident on her face. In the end, the King hadn't spoken a single word to her despite all the merits she had accumulated. Even now, the Knights were talking in private about all of the feats she had accomplished. This was why, no one complained about her beating up the medics earlier in the morning.
She'd simply contributed too much to be punished for something so trivial.
Yet did her accomplishments even mean anything in the King's eyes?
She was starting to doubt herself and her childish desire to get the approval of the person she looked up to.
Surely next time would be different.
Her shoulders slumped, but she refused to display her discouragement. Her only saving grace was the fact that Agravain wasn't around. The man's eyes had the ability to discern her true thoughts at a glance so she always felt that the man was making fun of her.
Just as she was moments away from exiting through the door, she froze.
"Mordred," Arturia's voice called out.
Caught unprepared, Mordred was too stunned to turn around and receive the King's words properly. She just stood where she was, her feet planted firmly beneath her and refusing to budge. Evidently, the King didn't mind and promptly continued.
"You have done well."
The words almost seemed to strike Mordred at the heart, a tremor running through her body as she shivered.
"You have my thanks."
Mordred sniffled subconsciously. She was crying.
After numerous failed attempts, the King had not only singled her out, but had even thanked her personally for her efforts.
She swallowed.
At the same time, she couldn't turn around, nor speak.
She was too afraid that her voice would crack and give her away, so she nodded her head and willed her legs to carry her away one step at a time.
All the while, Arturia's gaze never left Mordred's form.
Lancelot, after years of serving under Arturia could instantly detect that something was different.
Arturia's hands were balled so tightly that he could hear the distinct noise of metal grating from her gauntlets. Her shoulders were also trembling, the minute tremors glaringly obvious now that he was scrutinizing her.
Prudent as Lancelot was, he didn't comment. If the King wasn't confiding with him, then there were probably reasons that he was not yet aware of. He would not pry, especially with how 'tense' the King was, like a cat with its back arched that would jump at the slightest touch.
The King was already doing her best to maintain appearances, Lancelot could respect that and not needlessly add on to the King's plight.
Arturia suddenly stood up from the throne, her face turned to the side and away from view.
"I, I need to be excused," she turned her back to him, unable to maintain her composure any longer.
She left immediately, headed in the direction of the steel castle's walls as Tristan looked at Lancelot in confusion.
Lancelot said nothing and slowly gestured for Tristan to follow him to a certain room.
Unlike the other Knights of the Round Table, Lancelot already knew that Arturia was a woman after the encounter he had with her and Shirou five years prior. He knew of the relationship the two must have had.
He had a hunch about what was affecting the King.
LINE BREAK
Elsewhere, at the front door of a room accessed from an open hall, Tristan was frowning in uncertainty.
"Something's wrong with the King?" He shook his head, glancing over at Lancelot disbelievingly. "That shouldn't be possible. Avalon's healing is potent."
Lancelot didn't go into much details. "At the very least, just keep this room off limits. The King will appreciate the effort."
Tristan wanted a better explanation, but Lancelot quickly left. Of the Knights of the Round Table, Lancelot was the one entrusted to maintain the skill level of the regular Knights. He was something of an instructor to enforce constant training and the betterment of one's skills. With the situation with the Saxons, the need to train was at an all time high.
Tristan as an Archer would have little use in teaching other Knights. Of course, he too could use a sword, but his proficiency may only rival Bedivere's and everyone could defeat Bedivere.
It was for this reason that Lancelot had asked him to guard the doors of a particular room.
No one was to be allowed inside other than the King.
Lancelot was oddly strict with his wordings.
Tristan couldn't wrap his head around it. He'd already checked what was inside the room, and the only one in there was the hero who launched himself from a catapult.
Tristan was full of admiration. Not only was the King saved, but the entire army was able to break out of the Saxon encirclement. Just for that reason alone, he resolved himself to keep a strict look out.
The Hero deserved rest, and he would get it.
If only Tristan had known what sort of person he'd be facing in a couple of hours because of his decision.
"What do you mean I can't enter!" The voice was highly irritable, and it belonged to only one person.
Tristan felt like he'd received the short end of a stick as Mordred glowered at him. "It means what it means. This room is off limits," he attempted to persuade.
It was fuel to a fire.
Mordred was already irritated at Tristan, and his refusal to allow her to see Shirou was directly grating on her nerves. "I just want to check up on him."
She was doing her best to reel in her anger, but evidently, it wasn't working. Her gauntlet had long since been discarded to the side and she was itching to release her fists.
As if sensing her intent, Tristan was already positioning himself for a counter, fingers placed over Failnaught's strings to force Mordred back at a given moment. "Fighting each other right now is prohibited," he tried to reason one more time.
The Saxons were at their doorsteps so infighting was currently intolerable.
Mordred didn't say anything, but her expression said it all.
She didn't care.
Tristan knew that he had to act quickly, Mordred's fuse had always been exceedingly short.
Think. Think. What would Agravain do? He was always the one who handled Mordred's assignments.
Tristan's eyes widened in realization. "One more step and I'll tell the King."
The fist Tristan could see directly aimed at his face abruptly faltered before instantly losing momentum.
"Y-You wouldn't dare!" Mordred appeared as if she'd eaten a fly. Her face contorted as she gritted her teeth.
"Try me."
Based on Tristan's response, Mordred could detect not an ounce of a bluff. The man was dead serious. She pulled her arm back and glared like a child afraid to be tattled on. However, Tristan remained unmoved until she had no choice but to retreat in defeat.
She'd just gotten thanked by the King hours earlier and she couldn't bear for her impression to fall. However, she still wanted to see Shirou.
Shirou had done s such much for her, and it was thanks to him that the King had actually spoken to her.
Despite William's insistence that Shirou was fine, a part of her wouldn't be comfortable until she assessed Shirou's condition personally, and that meant entering the room.
That slanted-eyed bastard. She cursed inwardly, feeling as if the smile on Tristan's face was mocking her.
She released a heavy breath.
This wasn't over.
As she turned at the next corner over, she bumped into a platoon of Knights.
It was William Orwel and company.
Suddenly, she grinned while cracking her knuckles.
William's expression fell when in the next moment, a brawl ensued. The noise quickly escalated as the sound of grunting, screaming, and yelling began to echo. There was simply no way that Tristan could ignore the situation and that was exactly what Mordred was hoping for.
She had secretly made her way out of the brawl and circled around the area to wait for Tristan to leave.
Expectedly, Tristan frowned before slowly making his way over to where William and the others were.
She didn't make her move instantly, rather she continued to wait even after Tristan was out of sight. The man's hearing was exceptional. If she had rushed forward too early, then she would have garnered his attention.
Five minutes passed in silence before she quickly rushed towards the room and entered, closing the door behind her.
Once inside, she didn't pay attention to any furniture or the appearance of the room itself. It was plain anyway and there wasn't much to look at. What she focused on was Shirou's sleeping form laid out on a mattress of feathers.
The worry that she'd been keeping bottled up inside her faded away after she sat on the foot of the bed and watched Shirou intently.
No injuries.
Breathing properly.
Relatively peaceful expression.
Nothing appeared wrong with him at all aside from the fact that he was sleeping.
She fell silent, bowing her head low. Now that she was certain that he was okay and that he wouldn't hear what she had to say, she felt like she could express herself truthfully for once.
"Thank you," she wet her lips, her mouth suddenly dry. "For believing in me, for putting up with me, you were the first person to ever do that outside of Uncle Ector."
She was a homunculus. Her lifespan was shorter than a human being, but at the same time it meant that she would mature quickly. The only regrets she had in her life were her own self-doubts.
She was ashamed about the circumstances of her birth. Her mother was not a person she wanted to think about, and her father was someone left unmentioned to her. She didn't care anyway.
To be honest, before she had met Shirou, she had been envious of others. At their normal birth, at the love they were showered in by friends and family- her jealously of normal people subconsciously reflected in her actions and pushed others away.
Shirou was different, he clung onto her stubbornly, refusing to let go until he'd made a place for himself in her life. "You really are an idiot," she whispered lowly, her hands clasping together.
She fell silent, content to just stare at him, yet felt that the mood wasn't quite right.
Enough reminiscing about the past.
She laughed.
"Hey hey, did you know, the King praised me today," it was pitiful that she was talking to herself, but knowing that Shirou wouldn't remember anything allowed her to talk freely. "I, I was really happy you know. So much so that my vision began to grow foggy."
She wiped at her eyes with the back of her hands and swallowed before continuing.
"Sir Ector always told me that it's impossible to be alone. I guess he was right."
"I have Knights that follow me, tolerate me."
"No one speaks behind my back anymore."
"T-They all accept me."
William and the others didn't say anything, but she was fairly sure that they knew that she was a woman, and yet nothing in their relationship had changed. In fact, they became even more loyal to her.
"Sometimes I just want to show them my appreciation but it always turns into a brawl. Even then, I feel as if they understood my intentions and never actually tried to do me harm."
Mordred sat down by the foot of the bed and pulled her knees to her chest before wrapping her arms around them.
"I have so many things now that I never thought that someone like me would ever possess, it makes me think."
"Does someone like me deserve this?" She chuckled unenthusiastically and continued speaking to herself, not knowing that Tristan had long since returned to his post.
Tristan sighed on the other side of the door. There was no way he could enter the room now.
Around him, William and Mordred's other Knights lay beaten and groaning on the ground, yet not one of them revealed any regret. The display filled Tristan with such emotion that the urge to play a melody of comradery nearly overtook him.
In the end, Tristan held himself back after William who was sprawled on the floor, shook his head resolutely.
William's resolve was admirable, and to say that Tristan wasn't moved would be a lie. To begin with, out of all the Knights of the Round Table, it was he who was the most emotional. For hate, or for love, such emotions were things that could sway his very actions.
This was one such case.
Sorry Lancelot, he apologized.
Hesitating for only a moment longer, Tristan left followed by William and the others who limped on their feet.
Mordred, left none the wiser, continued to drone on until she eventually ran out of things to talk about.
Standing back up, she turned to leave, yet suddenly paused.
She noticed something. A bright light was shining from a sigil located on Shirou's right upper chest beneath his clothing.
After Agatha had urged Shirou into action within his psyche, the dormant Ashton Crest which had taken root within his body after Shirou assimilated with the Ashton Anchor, appeared once more. Of course, this time was different from how he had tapped into his magic on a whim in the battlefield. This time was a sustained and conscious effort on his part.
To Mordred, the sight was captivating. The Ashton Crest exuded a soft yet fiery glow that seemed to be calling out to her.
Subconsciously, she reached out for it.
When her finger grazed over the surface, a searing pain assaulted the back of her palm.
She reeled back in shock, wincing as the scent of burning flesh entered her nose. However, when she glanced down at her skin, not a blemish was seen despite the sizzling noise she had heard.
When she turned back to stare at the glowing spot on Shirou's chest, she realized that there was nothing there any longer.
Puzzled, she wanted to investigate further, but the prospect of stripping Shirou's shirt off while he was sleeping was too hard of a hurdle for her to cross.
She promptly left when she recalled that Tristan could return at any moment.
LINE BREAK
Gentle wind, swaying grass, and an open sky, the day was at its zenith, yet Arturia wasn't in the mood to consider anything.
She sighed as her eyes glanced at the numerous Saxon encampments that had sprung up around the castle like weeds. If it weren't for them capturing Kay, then perhaps she'd be spending all her time by Shirou's side.
He would remember her. Definitely.
She was trying to convince herself, yet she was failing. When she thought back to how Shirou had called out Mordred's name and not hers, the agitation within her became indescribable.
It took every ounce of her will power to address Mordred's merits earlier in the morning, and even now she was still shaken.
Despite knowing to separate public and personal matters, now that she was alone, her grievances couldn't be hidden any longer.
She felt like weeping, but was no longer able to when she considered the fact that it would lead her nowhere.
At the very least, Mordred had found Shirou and brought him back to her. That was something that she was genuinely thankful for. However, the feeling of not being remembered was slowly but certainly crushing her inside.
"You called, my King?" A voice interrupted her thoughts.
Bedivere, she had called for him personally several minutes ago.
Bedivere was puzzled. He had been summoned on such short notice that he didn't know whether he had done anything wrong or had achieved some sort of merit worth mentioning. Of course, the fact that he missed the earlier summons was grounds for some sort of punishment.
Yet why was the King staring at him so peculiarly?
"Bedivere," there were traces of hope in her tone. "You are a Knight unlike Lancelot, Tristan, or the others."
Unknowingly, a cloud of gloom appeared above Bedivere's head at her words.
"Uhm, thanks, I already knew that I couldn't compare to them, but it hurts my pride hearing you say it," Bedivere scratched his cheek while smiling wryly. He shivered soon after, his legs trembling as phantom pains assailed his mind from his recent encounter with Mordred.
Coupled with Arturia's words, it was like rubbing salt into a wound.
"Is this all that you called me for?" He asked dejectedly, assuming that Arturia must have heard how he'd been forced to writhe in pain over his bed all morning. Was the King perhaps concerned? "I'll have you know it still works."
Arturia stared at Bedivere in confusion, prompting the man to realize that he had erred in his judgement and therefore, he hurriedly shifted the subject away.
He coughed into his hand, prompting Arturia to speak.
She seemed to be struggling with herself to come to a decision, but her anxiety ultimately got the better of her. "Yes, well, I just wanted to ask for some advice."
It took a lot of effort to force the words out as it shattered her image as someone who didn't need the help of others to succeed, but in the end, it paid off.
Bedivere widened his eyes in surprise.
Staring at the worry and grief on Arturia's face, it made him realize that the King too was no different from the common person.
He fell to a knee and crossed an arm over his chest in salute. "Your Knight will offer all his services your Majesty. Please ask away."
Arturia's mouth opened, yet she didn't know how to proceed. More accurately, she didn't know how to word her sentences out.
Bedivere, out of all the Knights of the Round, was the closest to understanding the hearts of the masses. If it was him, then surely, he'd know things related to relationships and how to go about fixing them.
"I have a friend whose friend suddenly came back after disappearing for years with memory loss," she turned her back to Bedivere who blinked in suspicion. "This friend who disappeared suddenly came back with another woman, tell me, how should I execute this woman?"
Bedivere's face twitched. "I-I think you're getting a bit carried away, my King. Shouldn't the priority be to return the friend's memories?"
Arturia didn't turn to face Bedivere, but she had indeed gotten carried away. She had long since been able to draw a line between Mordred and Morgan, but her inability to get along with Mordred remained. Coupled with the fact that Shirou knew Mordred and not her, it was getting harder and harder not to stew in her anxiety.
"Moving on," she chose to directly smooth over her blunder. "Then how should I punish this woman-"
Bedivere coughed into his hand.
Arturia promptly shut her mouth and focused on setting her mind straight.
Bedivere didn't mind waiting.
"What should I do?" The tone of Arturia's voice was desperate, almost pleading when she finally spoke again.
This was the time for Bedivere to answer with his personal opinions. "If you think about it clearly my King, the answer is already before you."
Arturia glanced back at Bedivere, turning her head to rest on her right shoulder as she faced him. Waiting.
"If that friend doesn't remember, and if the bond shared between the friend is strong, all you have to do is stay by the friend's side."
Bedivere nodded his head.
"Trust that he will remember, or at the very least, do something that would shock him."
Arturia's pursed her lips, yet took Bedivere's words to heart.
For the time being though, it seemed as if the Saxons were ready.
She narrowed her eyes at the sound of clanking armour and marching infantry.
LINE BREAK
Not all stalemates were meant to last.
Impatience had bred within the Saxons until it was unbearable.
The breaking point had been reached.
The King of Britain.
The Mjolnir.
Both were gathered in one place.
The Saxon War Chiefs had used up all their connections to gather any and all available Saxons to converge on the location. For as far as the eye could see, wave after wave of enemies completely sealed off Castle Mordred.
From the wood of the broken catapults and pieces of chopped trees, siege ladders and battering rams were made.
The rest of the Saxons were quickly organized into large formations, archers placed on the back, spearmen at the front, and swordsmen in the middle.
The commanding leader was a Saxon War Chief named Eadwald who fought his way into a power by displaying his strength. Of the Saxons present, Eadwald the first of East Anglia was the one most anticipated to retrieve the Mjolnir and be able to wield it. In fact, in his eyes, the Mjolnir was already his possession.
His eagerness was reflected in his eyes, and as soon as he noticed that his men had gotten into formation, he immediately sent them forward.
Up on the high-wall of Castle Mordred, Palamid narrowed his eyes. The matter regarding the castle's defence was entrusted to him by the King. Moreover, from the perspective of a commander, the information Shirou had shared with him regarding different formations and tactics left him itching to test them.
He raised an arm up, and promptly lowered it as a signal.
Emily's eyes shone before she muttered out an incantation that formed a bird of air that flew towards the Son of Wolfred who was positioned by the Archers.
In defensive wars, the bowmen were always the first line of defence, and the current situation was no different.
As soon as the enemy drew close, a rain of arrows fell from the sky.
The Saxons raised their oval shields and hunkered down in defence, but even then, stray arrows found their way through heavy armours and directly pierced into loose joints and exposed eyes.
Eadwald wasn't panicked in the least. He'd seen such scenes numerous times already.
It was exactly what he had been waiting for.
"Quickly, charge down the center!" An order was given.
The arrows had just been fired, it was common knowledge that no bowman could fire consecutively in a row. Therefore, the period in which an Archer had to reload was the time to press forward.
Obeying Eadwald's command, his entire vanguard proceeded onward.
The earth was trampled beneath their feet, the vibrations produced shaking the entire area.
It was a momentum that couldn't be stopped.
Knowing that no arrows could possibly assail them at the moment, everyone was sprinting in the small window of time before the next volley was fired. Once they reached a close proximity to the castle, the overhead projections of the wall would reduce an arrow's effectiveness.
"Kill them!"
"Retrieve the Sacred Hammer!"
Two distinct battle cries echoed across the air.
Revenge, retribution, ambition, the motives of the Saxons were clear.
Eadwald's understanding of medieval warfare was at the pinnacle of the current timeline's knowledge. He was a man meant for greatness, his bloodline a future line of Kings of East Anglia.
His confidence in his own abilities was why he erred.
He had gotten so used to the customs of battle and anticipating what the enemies would do that he neglected to account for the unpredictable.
Whistling noises fell from the heavens like rain.
At the instant Eadwald gave the command to charge, he was quick to realize a shocking fact.
Staring at the new arrows that suddenly struck his men unprepared, Eadwald's mind blanked as his eyes dilated in disbelief.
There was barely any pause between volleys.
His breath hastened, his gaze bloodshot.
T-That wasn't possible!
He refused to believe it, yet the reality in front of him was undeniable.
How were they doing this?
He turned his head left and right, scrutinizing anything that could give him a clue.
Finally, he traced back the trajectory of the arrows and nearly choked.
W-What kind of formation was that?
One row of archers would fire then be replaced by a second then a third and a fourth.
As one line of archers reloaded, they would shift to the back of the formation in an endless cycle of arrows.
Eadwald could only watch in shock as the vanguard of his army was reduced to a pile of corpses.
It was one of many military arrangements Shirou had shared and modified for Palamid to use on the basis that the achievement be credited to Mordred.
It was born of eastern origin, from a War Lord that struck fear into the hearts of his enemies, and helped unify a Nation.
The Demon King of the Sixth Heaven.
The Fool of Owari.
Oda Nobunaga.
The Three Line Formation.
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