Fate-in time

48

Memories themselves are what make an individual who they are. It's similar to how children learn through experience and undergo personality and character development in adolescence. Stripped of one's memories, what exactly is left when certain parts of an individual go missing?

The answer wasn't something Shirou had ever deliberated. Life was simple living as a Blacksmith if just a little isolating forging steel alone in his forge. As such, despite knowing that his past memories were missing, he had been content to believe that he could make new memories that wouldn't change who he was or was going to be.
Left unsaid, he didn't want to consider the negative aspect of regaining his memories. For example, what if he'd been an evil person, a murderer or heinous villain of some kind?
It would be too difficult for him to accept given his current personality and mentality. He was kind, upright, and without doubts to weigh on his mind, focusing his all in his trade to produce the strongest weapon. The moment he began to question himself would be the moment that he would lose sight of what he truly wanted.
However, what if what he had truly wanted was something he had already forgotten?
The moment he had seen Mordred's face was the moment that the he realized that there was more to his life than just crafting swords.
His concentration that he had been honing for years shattered as the principle of not questioning his origins finally rammed into his mental defences and utterly decimated them.
Love.
The thought assailed his mind at every waking moment, like a melody that stubbornly remained.
I Love you.
Stronger and stronger still. A face on the verge of crying, ceaselessly attempting to reach out but never succeeding. Falling into despair, regret, hardship, it was unbearable. Why did it hurt so much?
Protect you.
Enough. No more.
Hold you close.
He didn't want to see that face crying, tears trickling down ashen coloured cheeks.
Seeing the anxiety that had been on Mordred's face in the midst of the battle against the Saxons, something from within him had reacted by instinct. An unwillingness to see that face contorted in grief both in his dreams and in reality.
Therefore, a rusted sword, its steel greyed, and surface marred, once again began to sharpen. To protect what it had always held dear in a burst of energy.
Pathways within the body that had remained stagnant suddenly thrummed to life for the first time in several years. The actualizers of magecraft, Magic.
A Magic which had congregated within him and beat loose the shackles of a seal in his mind meant for self-preservation.
His days living as an honest Blacksmith were over indefinitely.
A time frozen, turning once more.
Currently, he didn't know where he was or what exactly he was experiencing, but the world around him differed from what he was accustomed to. In fact, it was hard for him to believe that just a momentary lapse in his awareness while marching would land him in such a peculiar situation.
The sky above him was a deep orange while swords of all kinds were scattered upon a desolate land of cracked earth and upturned dust carried by the breeze. There was no grass or water, only caked dirt and grime; a biting wind that steadily wore away the strength of one's convictions oddly comforting in the feeling of reminiscent it brought to him.
He knew this place, this scenery, perhaps better than anyone.
Rather than panic, he was tranquil, absently taking in the craftsmanship of the swords around him and realizing that he too knew how to forge them.
Iron and steel.
Fire and the forge.
It was a grand smithery, an armory containing a vast number of weapons, yet nothing seemed out of place. Instead, there was a harmony found within the world built upon a simple motivation to help others, to help her.
His head began to ache, a hand moving to rest over his temples as he steadied himself. Even then, the dull ebbing within his mind manifested physically in the unknown world around him.
The vast orange sky promptly filled with a murky violet haze that attempted to corrode everything it touched, and yet in spite of all its efforts, a magic circle sought to contain it. It was an intricate design of revolving black markings and wisps of shadows that formed fiery sigils beating back the violet haze.
A woman stood beneath, panting heavily and arms outstretched to maintain the rotating sigils in the air. Her complexion was pale, an unhealthy pallor with beads of sweat trailing down her brow.
She looked utterly exhausted, her legs trembling beneath her yet still she persisted. For how many years, she could no longer count, but the moment she gave out, would be the moment that the Master who believed in a woman like her would cease to exist. For death of the mind was the same as death of the body. It was something that the woman adamantly refused to allow to happen.
By taking away and safeguarding the memories of the mind that the Witch's magic sought to target, the woman had effectively redirected the target of the Witch's magic onto herself. Unfortunately, she had been too weak at the time to forcibly dispel the magic and was therefore forced to endure without rest, leading to her current wretched state.
She needed help.
And she was gambling everything on the man who didn't even hesitate to free a demon like her from her bindings.
She believed in him.
He would come.
Definitely.
Blood trickled down from her skin, but the woman showed no signs of caring, her heels digging into the ground as she funneled more of her energy into the magic circle in the air.
Witnessing such a scene, Shirou could hardly understand it. Just where was the woman obtaining her motivation from to cope with her burdens?
Moreover, why did the expression on her face suddenly break out into a smile from the moment she noticed him staring at her, her red irises flashing within the shadows she produced?
Her knees buckled beneath the pressure she was enduring, a groan escaping her lips, but she seemed stronger than she had been before.
Agatha.
The name flickered in his mind.
He moved to help in some way, unable to keep still any longer, but he suddenly found himself immobile, unable to take even a single step forward as the world around him began to blur.
The expectation in Agatha's eyes dimmed when she noticed what was occurring before she let out a long-tired sigh. Even if she had safeguarded the most precious of memories, it didn't mean that they were beyond reach for the host.
'Hurry Ashton,' she gritted her teeth. 'Remember who you are.'
Shirou nearly spluttered as he was shaken awake, but Mordred didn't care as she nervously assessed him within a rolling storage cart. It was more of a wagon really with most of the necessary supplies and tools loaded on board.
Palamid had ordered that no one rest on the wagons to prevent overtaxing the horses puling the carts forward, but Mordred and the Knights of her unit seemed to disregard the rule. After all, it wasn't breaking military protocol if no one knew about it.
"Tch," Mordred clicked her tongue, concern evident in her tone. "I warned you that it wasn't a good idea to carry so much while marching."
Now that Shirou thought about it, Mordred really had given him a warning when he continued to offer carrying the equipment of exhausted Knights. When he had collapsed in the midst of marching, not only did the Knights whose equipment he was carrying feel guilty, but Mordred had been glowering at them at every waking moment.
The fact that no Knight had tattled on Shirou's current circumstances to the rest of the army was mostly due to the amicability Shirou shared with them. That, and the threat in Mordred's eyes as she had placed a hand over her sword.
Smiling wryly at the present conditions, Shirou made to stand up only to realize that Mordred was firmly keeping a hand on his chest and forcing him back down to rest in a pile of grains they used to feed the horses.
"What are you doing?" He asked bewildered.
Mordred didn't answer. Instead, her hands moved to grasp at the open ends of his leather-bound upper garments before she pulled. Hard.
"H-Hey!" He yelled in protest, sitting up in a fluster. "W-Why are you trying to take my clothes off?!"
"S-Shut up!" Mordred's face had already been red from the start, but it only grew more pronounced as Shirou called her out on her actions. "The bastards outside said it was common for Knights marching to collapse due to the heat. Therefore, stop struggling and let me take your clothes off."
Mordred's words stunned Shirou enough to provide Mordred an opening where she loosened the bindings of his tunic and pulled it right off. She smirked at her victory, but quickly turned her gaze away when her mind caught up to what exactly she had just done.
"Are you an idiot?" As if to add to her embarrassment, Shirou's voice then sounded. Fortunately he was wearing a sleeveless undershirt beneath his tunic or Mordred may not have been able to face him directly.
She looked at him sighing in exasperation before growing irritable. "You bastard I was only doing it for your own good so don't get any ideas."
Shirou's lip twitched. "That's the point," he said. "You do know that the other Knights outside probably meant that it was better for me to cool down right? You didn't have to actually take my clothes off."
Mordred blanched. Admittedly she hadn't exactly been thinking in her fluster when Shirou had first collapsed. For some reason, she felt like she had been taken advantage of by the Knights outside the flaps of the wagon. The thought itself was stifling, but the current awkward atmosphere was of her own doing.
Shirou made to stand up, but once again Mordred pushed him back down.
"I'm fine already," Shirou insisted. "Besides, I shouldn't collapse again anyway." His earlier collapse most likely had something to do with the dream he had.
Unfortunately, Mordred would not be taking his word for anything at the moment.
She glared, a hand raising itself upwards in a closed fist as if daring him to continue speaking.
"Okay okay, I'm not fine," Shirou relented.
He promptly closed his mouth and obediently sat down within the wagon, making himself comfortable until Mordred's temper subsided.
As much of a pain as Mordred was at times with her personality, she really was a sincere individual. The problem was that she didn't know how to openly express her concerns in her words and in her actions. It made her socially awkward, but it wasn't too difficult for Shirou to understand.
She was simply worried for him.
"Thanks Mordred," he said lightly. "I'll just rest here for the time being."
Mordred crossed her arms while huffing. "You better," she warned.
As her face was still red when she exited the wagon, she immediately placed her helmet back on and acted as if nothing had happened. Unfortunately, Mordred forgot that the fabric of the wagon could do nothing to muffle the sound of her voice and that the Knights outside could hear every word that she had just said.
From the moment Mordred stepped out of the wagon, this point became fairly obvious when every Knight she looked at would forcible suppress their laughter. Mortified, she exploded when two of the more reckless Knights erupted into full blown laughter.
"You bastards what's so funny huh!"
She charged forward and beat them with her fists while giving no mercy.
The rumours of a black-eyed Knight unit would only continue to proliferate from then on.
You're not alone anymore.
Shirou smiled from within the wagon, taking the time to relax in the harmonious air. For all the complaints Mordred had about other Knights willingly following her, to Shirou she looked far happier than he had ever seen her before. Then again, perhaps it was only because she was in the middle of a brawl laughing uproariously while she fought her way to the top.
Unfortunately, the happy times wouldn't last.
With the news that the King was in trouble, Palamid had everyone marching in a relatively consistent speed with few stops for supplies. Apparently, the main stop was at a town called Bristol where the King was raised in secrecy in his adolescence. Not only did Palamid wish to campaign there to recruit more men to come to the King's aid, but he had specifically returned to Bristol to gather together an elite unit.
As the days went by, it became more and more evident that something was weighing down on Mordred's mind as they neared Bristol. She was talking less and spending more time brooding at the front of the unit she was leading. At times, she didn't respond even when called out by others around her.
Shirou grew troubled with Mordred's behaviour, but wasn't certain if he should just go up to her and insist on an answer for something that may be personal.
Hesitating, Shirou forgot that it wasn't just him worrying over a girl who didn't seem to realize that she had others that she could rely on.
"Is Lady Mordred alright?" A slightly older Knight with greying hair strode up to walk by Shirou's side.
He was one of the first few Knights to willing serve under Mordred's banner at the aftermath of the battle of West Saxons.
The Knight's name was William Orwel, and like many of the Knights serving under Mordred, the man had a prominent black eye covering the right side of his rugged face. Oddly enough, he seemed proud of it like many of the others. 'A symbol of the Captain's affection,' was the common reply.
"L-Lady Mordred?" Shirou stuttered out in surprise. He glanced at Mordred to make sure she didn't hear, but she was still too caught up in her internal musings to pay attention to the noise around her.
Shirou smiled wryly at William. He knew that Mordred was trying to hide her gender in the army but it seems as if she'd already failed. Still ignorance was bliss he supposed.
"We'll, Sir Mordred's a woman, isn't she?" William scratched at the back of his head in confusion. "None of the other Knights had ever noticed it before, but the more time we spend around Sir Mordred the more evident it became," William explained.
In their brawls, they didn't fight while wearing their gauntlets, they fought with their bare fists to prevent casualties. In which case, weren't Sir Mordred's hands both oddly small and oddly soft for an individual trained in the sword?
Besides, the biggest give away was the sound of her voice. No matter how masculine she tried to make it sound, it was impossible for an average woman to possess the deep baritone of a man. It was even less likely for her to do so while flustered in her interactions with Shirou.
However, no one said anything amongst the Knights as it would break the status quo.
To every Knight willing to follow Mordred, they didn't exactly care if she was a woman or not, just as they probably wouldn't care if the King was a woman or not. What mattered was that Britain needed leaders to spearhead the resistance against the Saxon invasion. The Knights wouldn't question anything even if a woman took on the duties of a man in such a gruelingly violent era.
Besides, they were fine with Palamid, so there was no reason for doubt.
Most likely, Palamid would by crying if he ever heard the common consensus amongst the Knights regarding him to be woman. Worse, he'd yet to settle past debts with Merlin let alone discover a cure.
Shirou couldn't deny William's and the other Knights observations so he simply nodded his head in response to William's words.
William gave a knowing look before coughing into his hand and gaining some semblance of seriousness.
"Back onto the topic, but do you know about anything that could be bothering Lady Mordred? Her silence doesn't suit her as much as her refreshingly brash, juvenile, and naïve attitude," William asked in a disgruntled manner, a hand brushing the stubble of his beard. "Perhaps if my fellow brothers and I started another brawl she'd join in?"
Shirou was quick to dissuade William of such an idea.
Although Palamid had yet to say anything on the matter, randomly breaking into a brawl in the midst of a military expedition was not smiled upon. The reputation of the Black-Eyed Knights was already becoming questionable as it was, and he feared that they would one day isolate themselves from the other Knights.
"I'll think of something, so can you and the others just promise me that you'll hold yourselves back?" Shirou asked.
William nodded his head before gesturing to the other Knights around him who were already unequipping their gauntlets in preparation for a fist-fight. They began murmuring in discontent but William silenced them with a stern reprimand lest their rambling attract Mordred's attention who was leading at the front.
When the Knights were finally settled, William turned his attention back to Shirou and smiled.
"I hope you already know that Lady Mordred seems to rely a lot on you," William crossed his arms and grunted good naturedly. However, there was a sharpness in his bearings that suddenly became more prominent. "Therefore, you better make sure that she stays happy or you'll be having problems with me and the boys here."
Shirou let out a voiceless laugh. "Right then," he said in conformation.
"Good lad!" William clapped Shirou on the back before to marching in line with his fellow of Knights.
Shirou smiled in exasperation. As much as he was fully aware that he had just been threatened, it meant that there now more people who would stick up for Mordred even if he wasn't around.
In regards to Mordred herself, he decided that he would consider what exactly he would do after arriving in Bristol as nothing would change in the fact that they still had to march there.
Well, if he was to be more truthful, he wasn't exactly marching.
The wheels of the wagon continued to role while being pulled by the horses with him inside it.
If there was one thing that didn't change despite Mordred's brooding, it was that she was adamant that he not over exert himself. Any indication that he was attempting to get off the wagon was met with an eerie level of intuition as Mordred turned around to scowl at him.
It was the one action Shirou realized could get Mordred to stop thinking about whatever was on her mind, so he began doing it consistently until Mordred had just about gotten fed up with him and decided to march directly into the carriage.
She was literally at an arm's length away from him while glancing at him in warning every so often, her helmet placed to the side.
William and the other Knights were secretly giving Shirou gestures of approval, but he had a hard time responding without getting caught.
In the silence between the two, Mordred was gradually beginning to brood once again.
It wasn't something Shirou wanted to see, so against his better judgment, he shifted his position and sat himself directly next to her.
Mordred turned her face to stare at him, but he only grunted as he crossed his arms.
"Whatever you're thinking about, it'll be fine," he spoke reassuringly without looking at her.
She made to rebuke him, but ultimately changed her mind when he slung his arm over her shoulder and grinned. She tuned her face away, unable to meet his gaze without growing flustered and lashing out.
Realizing that he was doing nothing else but showing his support for her, Mordred's expression softened, but she still didn't speak out. A feeling of contentedness was the only thing in her mind. Besides, Shirou himself didn't mind holding her to prevent her from brooding. He'd do so all the way up until Bristol if he had to.
He adjusted the arm he had around Mordred to bring her head to rest over his shoulder, ignoring the redness of her face. She could hit him, struggle even, but he wouldn't let go because he knew that Mordred needed someone to rely on.
Whatever was going through Mordred's mind, Shirou could put up with it until she was willing to tell him.
Until then, he rested his head over hers.
He could wait.
Bristol was a town that was thriving. Built near the coast, Bristol had plenty of fertile land both for agriculture and development, allowing it to become a central supply station amongst the towns in the alliance against the Saxons.
Over the years, the importance Bristol had in the defence against Britain's invaders only increased with its strategic value and history it involved.
It was the town at the center of Legends.
King Arthur and his Knights.
Duke Wolfred and the Knights of the Wolf.
And Young Lord Ashton, the most famous amongst the locals. For Lord Ashton was both a legend that had lived and died unlike King Arthur who was still leading the resistance forces.
Many of the townsfolk in Bristol still recalled the red-haired child that had walked through Bristol's streets and frequented the local craftsman shops accompanied by another child.
It was the child that would later go on to be credited as a Hero of the common folk due to the farming system which saved thousands of lives during the winter. Furthermore, the other titles that followed his name made it so that none in Britain had not heard of him and his relationship to the King.
Lord Ashton, the First Knight.
They were said to have been the best of friends where one would risk their life for the other without hesitation.
In a tragic turn of events, it was rumoured that the King had gotten himself involved in too deep of a burden, and Lord Ashton had sacrificed himself to save the King's life. Of course, the story was more hearsay if anything, but it became harder to refute when the façade of the expressionless King shattered during a gathering to garner the support of the nobility.
The King had left the gathering without a word on that day and didn't speak to anyone in the following three. As a result, the gathering turned into a failure, with many Nobles that knew the late Duke Ashton unable to put their trust in the new King.
Regardless of all the rumours, the fact that Bristol was the origin of it all practically made the town a sacred land where Heroes were born and raised. In which case, Bristol was flooded by waves upon waves of immigrants that Palamid was intending to recruit.
Arriving at Bristol, Palamid pulled on the reigns of his horse and smiled wistfully.
It had been a long time since he had returned, and everything around him was bringing him a sense of nostalgia. The trees, the breeze, and the fact that with him was a man who made the journey back to Bristol all the more meaningful.
"Marcus, bring up the rear and set camp at the eastern lodgings of the town," Palamid ordered.
As one of Palamid's four Generals and a direct adjutant, Marcus already knew what needed to be done even without Palamid ordering him.
"Leave it to me," Marcus said before his expression twisted. "My Lord, do you happen to know what should be done with Lord Ashton's hammer?"
Palamid's expression stilled.
The topic regarding Shirou's hammer had actually been giving Palamid headaches. On one hand, the Saxon's seemed to view it as some kind of Holy Weapon of their faith and would stop at nothing to possess it. Palamid couldn't even attempt to use misinformation to confuse the Saxons as there was no denying the capabilities it displayed in battle to thousands of individuals.
The amount of minor attacks launched on the convoy of Knights Palamid was leading was not small, however due to the fact that Shirou and Mordred's units marched at the back, they were unaware of just how much trouble the hammer was bringing.
Palamid was fine combating against regular soldiers and infantry, but religious fanatics were on a whole other level of crazy.
Palamid shuddered at the thought and erased it from his mind.
"Where's the hammer now?" Palamid inquired.
Marcus simply pointed up.
Palamid's lip twitched as he spotted the hammer sailing through the air from its initial launch point from the back of the convoy.
Due to the sheer weight of the hammer, it was impossible to transport it by normal means. The supply wagons would break if the hammer was loaded onto them and even then, if the wagons didn't break, then the horses would still be unable to pull them anyway.
Only Shirou could lift the hammer while others struggled to even pull it. As such, Palamid had been content to just allow Shirou to hold onto it, but it all changed when Shirou suddenly collapsed to heat exhaustion.
Mordred, the commanding Knight of the rear guard called for a full stop of her entire unit until Shirou woke up. Even then, Mordred refused to allow Shirou to walk on his own anymore, meaning the hammer had to be transported somehow.
With no one able to lift it, and nothing available to transport it, Mordred irritably summed up the only logical conclusion.
'Just throw the damn thing."
Every so often throughout the journey to Bristol, it was a common sight to see a hammer sailing far above the convoy's heads and cratering in the distance until Mordred's unit reached the point of impact and threw it all over again. Believe it or not, the sight instigated any Saxon nearby into action, none of them able to keep still.
Palamid's headache only continued to grow worse.
"Tell Shirou that he's to keep that hammer with him at all times, and to stop listening to Mordred's goading to see just how far he can throw," Palamid spoke with exasperation, dismissing Marcus before the man could convey anymore issues.
Palamid didn't have time for anything else.
He kicked his heels and spurred his horse forward into a gallop.
His father Duke Ferdinand had long since procured for him a plot of land within Bristol but this wasn't Palamid's intended destination. It was somewhere else.
A familiar barracks where he had spent his adolescence learning to become a Knight.
The manor of James Wolfred.
Riding his horse, it didn't take him long before he dismounted and began heading in the direction of the large estate before him. After the passage of several years, the Baron-sized manor had undergone several upgrades during the course of James Wolfred's promotion to a Duke.
The outer walls were lengthened to encompass a larger portion of the land while various people of occupations were invited to maintain the household.
Upon Palamid's arrival, a group of maids and butlers welcomed him in a neat row at the front entrance despite their bewilderment at his sudden appearance.
Palamid gave them all a cordial greeting and simply moved on after being allowed entry. He was as familiar with the Wolfred estate as he was with his own home since he had spent the better part of his life raised within. As such, he didn't hesitate when he crossed the training fields and moved directly towards the main study of the estate located adjacent to the barracks.
Walking down the halls, Palamid abruptly pushed open a large set of oaken doors to reveal a youth in his twenties meticulously working over a desk at the far end of the room. His brown hair had become more scraggily and dark circles had formed under his eyes, but within his haggard exterior, there was a strength and will not be underestimated.
The youth glanced up from the moment Palamid opened the study's doors and broke out a smile.
"I didn't think you'd return after adamantly deciding to lead your own army of Knights," the youth spoke in jest before rubbing his temples. "And before you ask, no. Sir Anders has not yet come to visit."
Palamid pulled off his helmet and allowed his hair to freely fall down his back. A neutral expression appeared on Palamid's face before it eased into a fond greeting.
"It's been a long time hasn't it," Palamid greeted the Son of Wolfred in front of him.
"Indeed," the Son of Wolfred nodded his head. "We haven't met like this since the Wolf Unit disbanded."
Palamid sighed before stepping forward and taking a seat in a vacant chair. It was made of polished wood with a feather cushion for comfort.
"From the looks of it, you've already taken over for your father?" Palamid eyed the Noble cape the Son of Wolfred now wore over his shoulders.
The Son of Wolfred simply nodded. "As of last month, yes. My father deserves his retirement and he's currently preoccupied with political and business documents."
Palamid raised a brow. "If you're already the new head of he Wolfred Family, will you not use your name yet?"
The Son of Wolfred shook his head. "No. I am not yet worthy to use that name until I've accomplished something greater than what my father has done in his life time like his father before him."
"A family tradition? Understandable but you've got a lot to try and overcome," Palamid expressed his opinion.
The Son of Wolfred frowned before leaning back in his chair, opening the drawer of his desk, and pulling out a flask of wine.
Palamid grinned as he shuffled closer, the Son of Wolfred pouring him a cup.
"I didn't take you to drink on duty, but I won't complain," Palamid took the cup of wine the Son of Wolfred had offered him and drank it in a single mouthful. The burning sensation travelling down his throat let him feel as if he was alive as a flush made its way onto his face.
The Son of Wolfred didn't reply right away. After offering Palamid a cup of wine, the Son of Wolfred idly swished the wine in his cup as a silence descended.
"I didn't take myself to be one to drink on duty either, but neither did I believe that good-for-nothing hero would kick the bucket before people like us trying to catch after his shadow." The Son of Wolfred continued to swirl the wine in his drink using his fingers, missing the way Palamid's expression flickered.
Palamid remained quiet and simply waited for the Son of Wolfred to make his point.
The Son of Wolfred straightened his back and shifted his attention entirely onto Palamid. The passing years had forced the Son of Wolfred to mature and take on traits similar to his father. He was now meticulous and regarded every report sent to him with the utmost seriousness. It was no longer the job of his father to protect the well being of the people in his territory, but his. He couldn't stay as naïve, snobish, and conceited as he had been in his youth flaunting his status as a young Noble.
The Son of Wolfred was now more of an upright individual.
"Although I'm gladdened that you've come to pay an old friend a visit, but why have you really come Palamid? Unless it was an emergency you would not have taken the time to come here given the dire straights of the King." The Son of Wolfred cut right to the point. "Knowing you, you should have headed straight towards the battlefield."
Palamid was impressed with his friend's growth and grew serious in response.
"You know as well as I do what it means for me to come back here of all places instead of help Arthur at the battlefront." Palamid extended out his hand. "Join me. Together we'll recruit able-bodied men and form a new Wolf Unit to pierce a path through the battlefield."
To say that the Son of Wolfred wasn't tempted by Palamid's offer would be a lie. For a moment, it was like he was reliving the past again. Soaring out towards an adventure upon a flaming bird and participating in wars in the midst of his adolescence. Earning glory, and earning honours. Unfortunately, there was a problem.
"What's gotten into you, Palamid?" The Son of Wolfred shook his head while staring at Palamid's outstretched palm. "The present isn't the same as the past. Neither of us are him and it's not like we haven't tried to live up to his legacy either."
"We?" Palamid was distinctly certain that the Son of Wolfred was not referring to him when the Son of Wolfred said 'we' as Palamid was often deployed on the battlefield. Thereby making it impossible for him to have interacted with the Son of Wolfred in that timeframe.
"Yes, we," a voice answered in the Son of Wolfred's stead.
A woman who had been sitting quietly at the edge of the study promptly made herself known. Her hair was smooth like silk, running down over the soft robes she wore that accentuated her curves as a woman. Her bearings appeared dignified and an air of superiority exuded from her subconsciously, but it wasn't exactly her fault that the standards of the Barthomeloi were so strict.
"I-It's you," Palamid stuttered out in surprise when he laid eyes on the woman.
"It has been a long time hasn't it, Sir Palamid," the woman curtsied. "Allow me to reintroduce myself. I am Emily Barthomeloi, next in line for the succession of the Barthomeloi family of magi. I was not allowed out for several years due to various reasons, but I have since been acknowledged by my elders and granted permission to tour the world without embarrassing the family name."
Palamid remained silent for he could feel a change in the air as Emily talked. Even without seeing it, he could understand it due to his time staying near Shirou.
It was the workings of magic.
"You've become a witch?" Palamid muttered in surprise.
Emily shook her head. "The correct term is magus," she spoke softly. "Then again the knowledge is to be sworn to secrecy but I'm not like my family elders too stuck up in tradition."
Palamid didn't bother asking Emily to elaborate, he was more concerned with what the Son of Wolfred meant with his earlier words.
"What did the both of you try to do together exactly?" Palamid asked.
Emily furrowed her brows before taking a seat near Palamid and explaining.
"We wanted to form a unit to help Arthur in Shirou's memory," Emily said. "However, it was more difficult than it seemed. Competent in magic as I am now, I still don't have the confidence to pull of the feats Shirou had in his youth. I don't have the charisma or disposition for it."
"Not even just that," the Son of Wolfred interjected while looking at Emily. "I'm sure your magic is capable enough to alter a battlefield, but the main problem is that no one knows you. The allure you would have to create an elite unit pales in comparison to the influence Shirou would have as the Young Lord Ashton."
As the Son of Wolfred and Emily continued to discuss with each other, the two of them finally noticed the smile creeping its way onto Palamid's face.
"The fuck's wrong with you?" The son of Wolfred was the first to express himself.
Emily simply frowned and looked to Palamid for an answer.
As Palamid opened his mouth to speak, a blaring commotion occurred outside.
People were running and shouting frantically not in fear, but in an uncontrolled excitement. The entirety of the town seemed to be caught up in it as well. The origin of the noise seemed to stem from the specialty district of the town which was comprised of various smithies and craftsman professions.
Palamid seemed to have a pretty solid idea about what was going on.
He pinched the bridge of his nose and inwardly began admonishing himself.
What did he think would happen?
If he could recognize Shirou, then what did that mean for the craftsman and townsfolk who worked with Shirou in his youth?
It would be the same as suddenly meeting the Hero of Legend.
Worse, it was in Bristol, the town where it all began.
-Several hours earlier.
Marcus, one of the four Generals of the army led by Palamid was strictly supervising the unit led by Mordred as they set up camp on the east-side of Bristol.
Despite knowing that Marcus was supposedly monitoring the entire unit, Shirou felt it quite obvious that it was he and his hammer who was the target of scrutiny. Everywhere he went, Marcus's eyes would always follow him without question.
Shirou furrowed his brows in annoyance. As fairly tolerant as he was, being stared at without him having done anything wrong was still uncomfortable. Still, that didn't mean that Marcus was doing anything too outrageous to warrant any real animosity. Therefore, Shirou let it go while unpacking his belongings in a tent he shared with Mordred.
Speaking of which, he hadn't paid much notice of it before, but where exactly was Mordred?
He had separated from her when the two of them had arrived at Bristol and dismounted from the wagon.
Glancing back and forth, he was quick to realize that she was nowhere near where the unit of Knights were camping. Instead, as he narrowed his eyes, he noticed her sneaking off in the distance.
He raised his brow.
It was unlike Mordred to leave off on her own, granted she did the same thing in Exeter but she was different from the past. She had people who actually wanted her company in the army. There was no reason for her to distance herself.
Recalling how Mordred had been brooding over the course of the journey, he decided that he couldn't possibly just leave her alone.
Hurriedly dropping his things, he immediately took off in the direction Mordred had left in only to halt in his tracks.
"I don't believe camp is completed yet," Marcus tried to speak sternly, but the realization that he was impeding Lord Ashton's way took away the persuasive ability of his words.
Marcus shook his head. He had been given a task by Palamid and he'd damn well see it through.
"I'd advise you to turn back for the time being," Marcus said politely.
Shirou kept silent, his gaze not once shifting to Marcus as he didn't want to lose sight of Mordred.
"Say, you were the one who was interested in seeing my hammer before, right?" Shirou asked slowly.
Marcus nodded his head absently. "Uhm, yes, that would indeed be me."
After seeing the capabilities of the hammer and the importance the Saxons had placed on it, Marcus had long since grown curious. The only problem was that he didn't think himself to have a high enough standing to request to see such a peerless weapon from an individual such as Lord Ashton. Of course, that didn't stop him from spreading his intentions through the Knights in the army hoping that Lord Ashton would actually agree to his request.
Hearing Marcus's reply, Shirou promptly grinned. "It's all yours to inspect." He lightly tossed the hammer outwards.
Marcus subconsciously grabbed the hammer's hilt, and before he knew it, he groaned as the hammer pinned him to the ground.
"Well as you're busy now, I'll just get going," Shirou immediately left before Marcus could say anything in protest. Even if Shirou did hear Marcus yelling for him to come back, he could always pretend he didn't.
Running to chase after Mordred, Shirou took note of the fact that Mordred wasn't exactly headed in the direction of Bristol's center. She was moving slightly away from it by taking a worn forest path situated outside the town itself.
Following silently behind her, he fell more and more into a daze as he observed the scenery around him.
Open plains.
Quiet meadows.
Brown wheat fields.
The more he looked, the more familiar everything became until he was rooted in place when a particular house came in view.
It was worn and made of wood and packed thatch. Parts of it were in need of repair like a hole on the front door and damage to the windows caused by growing vegetation. He didn't know why, but he felt a nostalgia from within him that was unmistakable.
He closed his eyes, and for a moment, he could picture a miniature version of himself packing lunches early in the morning to visit this house everyday. And for what reason?
Because she was there.
A shudder travelled down his body as he stared at the house and Mordred who took her helmet off to stare in reminiscence.
"So, this was where you went," Shirou asked, no longer able to keep himself still.
His sudden appearance caught Mordred by surprise as she hastily drew out her sword. However, she quickly sheathed it when she noticed that it was just him.
"Yeah, so what?" Mordred spoke defensively.
"It's a good house. You can feel the care the owners must have put into it for it to still be standing despite no one currently living in it," Shirou said his assessment.
Mordred simply nodded. There was a fondness in her gaze that Shirou had never seen on her before.
"Is it an important place to you?" He questioned.
"Yeah," Mordred said pensively. "It's Uncle Ector's house. I was brought here when I younger to learn swordsmanship when Uncle Ector was taking a rest from an injury in battle."
Mordred didn't explain anything else further, but her mouth gradually curved upwards. At the time when she had first met Uncle Ector, it was due to the machinations of her Mother who wished for her to learn the way of the sword.
Uncle Ector, despite being hostile to her when they had first met, he was kind. He had seen something in Mordred that must have had reminded him about something in his past. Since then, he treated Mordred like family, giving her a sense of belonging the likes of which her mother had never done.
'The sins of the parent are not the sins of the child.'
Uncle Ector cared for her in earnest. In fact, without his help, Mordred probably wouldn't have been promoted to a Knight of the Round. As such, Uncle Ector and his home in Bristol held a special place in Mordred's heart.
She had come back to seek comfort and guidance, the revelation that the King was in danger causing her to doubt herself.
Were her merits enough?
Would the King be glad to see her coming to the recue?
She was still unsure.
"Are you alright Mordred?" Shirou called out to her as she had been silent for too long.
"Yeah," she shook her head. "Yeah I'm fine." She turned her back to him, her expression pensive.
Shirou shook his head. There was no way Mordred was going to be able to convince him that she was fine with the face that she was making, her eyes downcast and mouth set in a thin line.
He stared at her, and she stared back.
The silence stretched on, but if Mordred believed that he would back down when it concerned her well-being, then she was wrong.
No matter how long Mordred stared at him, he refused to break eye contact.
I care for you.
I believe in you.
The messages he was conveying to her with his actions were worth more than any words he could come up with.
Eventually, she glanced down in defeat, the warmth in her chest causing her lips to tremble. The fact that Shirou cared for her time and time again were all that was present in her mind. She couldn't keep her insecurities to herself any longer, not when he kept staring at her with such sincerity that it was hard for her to look at him. Her heart was threatening to beat right out of her chest.
"I don't know if it's enough," she eventually said. "A part of me already understands that the King dislikes me so I don't know if my accumulated merits are enough."
Recalling Mordred's motivations so far to be liked by the King, Shirou found that her concerns were reasonable. She was still fairly new for a Knight and was hardly experienced enough to earn the King's recognition. What if she went and saved the King, but the King didn't so much as look at her?
The depression on Mordred's face at such an outcome was something Shirou refused to see.
"Then we'll make your merit bigger," he grabbed Mordred's shoulders and turned her to directly face him. "We'll make it so big that the King will be unable to disregard you and your services!"
"B-Bastard, you're too close and besides, it's not that easy to build merit!" Mordred yelled in protest, trying to shove Shirou away from her, but Shirou wouldn't have it.
"Then trust me," he said. Ever since he used magic in the battle against the Saxons, more and more memories were made available to him. Knowledge from a timeline far more advanced than what the current era could hope to match up with.
The King would most likely be caught fighting in an open battlefield. A plain with no sort of fortifications to provide cover in the midst of Saxon territory. There-in-lied the merit.
"Shirou you," Mordred made to protest again, but her voice grew exceedingly quiet when she noticed the intensity of his gaze. "I-I'll trust you," she eventually spluttered out, shoving Shirou away at the same time in her anxiety.
She clicked her tongue and absently began petulantly kicking a tree to relieve her of her embarrassment.
"Then head back to camp Mordred, there are some preparation I need to do so head on without me," Shirou said.
Mordred perked up. "You don't want me to come?"
Shirou smiled wryly. With Mordred's outward appearance with her armour, it would terrify the common townsfolk. As such, it was probably better for her not to come along.
"It'll be better if I go solo," he insisted. "It's not like I'm doing anything major. I'm just going into town to visit the craftsman and blacksmiths there to commission a trade deal."
Mordred stared at Shirou in suspicion, but she didn't stop him when Shirou turned to leave. Instead, warning him to come back early.
Walking towards Bristol, he soon entered the towns streets and headed directly towards the local market area, a specialty district where most of the shops were located. What he wanted to do now was order a large shipment of steel and metal to incorporate into the merits he had planned for Mordred.
A fortress suddenly springing up in the flat land of the plains with no shortage of food or water.
Moments after he had walked into Bristol, it was with a keen sense of awareness that he realized that there was something wrong.
He furrowed his brows. What exactly was going on? It wasn't as if he was trying to be conspicuous, but no matter where he went, gazes followed him.
It was even more exaggerated because the people shopping in the market would unceremoniously drop the items they had in their hands in shock.
One step, then two.
When one person began following him, more and more began to join before crazed shouts resounded throughout Bristol.
If Shirou wasn't frowning before, he was frowning now.
He was practically surrounded on all sides like some animal attraction with people pointing and whispering in his direction. As much as he wanted to ask what was going on, the answer was soon laid out front of him as every single blacksmith in the town bowed to him in respect.
"H-Hail Lord Ashton!"
"I-It really was him! I told you all it couldn't have been a mistake! He worked in the same forge as me when we were kids!"
"T-The God of Agriculture!"
"No, he was the Beast Slayer, I saw him kill waves of monsters with mine own eyes!"
"He wasn't dead, I told you all Heroes don't die! Those Saxons are in for it now!"
The quiet din of the market erupted into a full-blown festival that couldn't possibly be ignored, and in the midst of it, stood Shirou who had no idea the effect his mere presence had on the people of Bristol.
He just stood there dumbly, unable to process the fact that his past self may have had perhaps been just a little famous in the world.
Someone began chanting the name 'Lord Ashton' in the air, the shouts becoming deafening.
Shirou's shoulders sagged as he was grabbed and hoisted up by the crowd to be paraded down the streets, thoughts spinning within his head.
How was he going to explain this one to Mordred?
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