A/N: I do not own any of these characters. Everything belongs to their respective owners.
Kiritsugu hated the cold.
It reminded him of that harsh storm that Irisviel was put in to prove her worth.
It reminded him of that hellish place that was the Einzbern castle, where even inside the hallways, the chilling sensation was enough to strike deep inside his core.
But most of all, it reminded him of the endless hours, waiting—pleading—for the Einzberns to let him see his sweet, precious Illya again. His throat would go raw from screaming into the vast, empty forest, with only the wolves and the howling wind keeping him company.
Kiritsugu hated the cold, but perhaps the coldness he felt as he lied there on his deathbed was deserved, for abandoning his family when they needed him the most, and leaving Illya to fend for herself in this cold, malicious world that had torn him down to bits.
The thing standing before him was not his child.
No matter how much it looked like his beloved daughter, he knew he couldn't let the illusion fool him. No matter how much it hurt, he couldn't fall for those scarlet orbs that held so much innocence, or that soft voice that held so many deadly lies.
The small, frail body jumped into his arms, laughing as if it didn't have a care in the world.
"Papa can't go hunting for walnuts in the forest with you anymore," he said, voice filled with regret. His grip tightened around the gun he held by his side, knuckles whitening.
"It's okay!" it said cheerfully. "As long as you're here, it's alright!"
He smiled gently and placed the gun under her small, porcelain-like face.
"I'm sorry, Illya. Papa loves you." And with that, he pulled the trigger. For the first time in years, he felt his heart tighten and the unfamiliar feeling of tears run down his face as the blood splattered over him, watching as the now limp body fell to the ground with a sickening thump.
The sound of laughter filled the clearing as a red-headed boy ran around, leaving small footprints scattered across the freshly fallen snow. Kiritsugu followed from afar, a fond smile on his face.
Suddenly, Shiro skidded to a stop and turned around. "Pops! Let's play a game!" he exclaimed.
The memory came back in a swirl of white and red. "Papa can't go hunting for walnuts with you anymore." Kiritsugu flinched, his previously gentle expression hardening.
For a mere eight-year-old, Shiro was strangely perceptive for his age, always noticing the little things that others missed or forgot. Though it worried him, he shrugged off Kiritsugu's reaction, deciding it wasn't the right time to ask. If Kiritsugu wanted him to know, he would tell him.
A moment of silence passed between them, filled only by the soft whisper of the icy wind that swept through the area. Shiro shivered as a smile forced itself upon Kiritsugu's face.
"I'm sorry, but I'm not feeling well right now." Then, crouched so he could be at eye level with the boy, he said, "Forgive me, Shiro. Maybe next time."
Ruffling his hair, Kiritsugu stood up and started walking back to the house. Shiro stood there, contemplating for a moment with his head tilted to the side, the crunching of the snow beneath Kiritsugu's feet being the only noise as he walked. Then, with a smile of his own, Shiro ran past Kiritsugu and back towards the house.
The man kept up his slow pace, trudging through the wet snow with his formerly peaceful thoughts now occupied by painful memories. By the time he got to the front door, Shiro had already entered the house and was attempting to take off his winter gear. Smiling at the boy's efforts, Kiritsugu turned and took one last look at the white terrain now filled with footprints, one set big and the other small, crisscrossing over each other. He turned his head and reached for the door, but for just a moment—just one fleeting moment—he could have sworn he saw a wisp of snowy white hair.
That night, after he had tucked Shiro to sleep, Kiritsugu went to his own room and lied on his bed, motionless. As he laid there, he couldn't seem to fall asleep no matter how much he urged himself. With a sigh, he covered his eyes with his hands as a desperate last attempt.
As soon as the darkness enveloped his vision, it was taken away. Snapping open his eyes, he found himself in the unmistakable grey room, and there, standing in the middle of the bedroom, was her. She stared at him for a moment, crimson eyes embracing him in her warm gaze, then began striding towards him, silver hair and gown flowing gracefully behind her.
"Kiritsugu," she said fondly, her voice soft.
The man flinched, but responded calmly with an, "Irisviel."
"What, no 'Iri?'" The woman questioned, still advancing towards Kiritsugu with an even expression.
"You are not Iri." Kiritsugu ground out.
Irisviel's scarlet eyes flashed, and she took one last step, her hand reaching up to his cheek.
"Why are you like this to me?" She cocked her head to the side, digging her nails into his skin, drawing blood. "Why must you refuse me?"
Kiritsugu stood there, unmoving as the warm, sticky liquid trailed down his face.
The cruel voice that was once warm and gentle now filled with rage and venom. "I curse you, Emiya Kiritsugu."
He tensed at those familiar words, fist clenching, and gritted his teeth as his nails dug into his flesh, causing more red droplets to splatter down on the marbled floor.
"Angra Mainyu curses you. Suffer... Lament until you die!" Her blood-stained nails moved down to his neck, pressing her thumbs down on his esophagus. Kiritsugu's hands shot up to her's on instinct.
His fingers gripped her hands as they tightened around his neck. Black dots began to swarm in his vision, but he could still hear Irisviel's muffled voice spit out those dreaded words, the words that had haunted his nightmares every night since that day he'd killed her.
"I will never forgive y—"
His eye's flew open and he sat straight up, panting and grasping at his neck. It wasn't real, it wasn't real, he tried to calm his pounding heart. As all of his memories came rushing back, Kiritsugu's eyesight became blurry and he began to choke up, feeling his eyes water with unshed tears.
It wasn't Iri. It wasn't Iri. Iri is dea—you killed her, a little voice in the back of his mind chimed, bringing back all those crushing feelings of loneliness and despair. Slamming his hands down on his ears, Kiritsugu fell back onto the pillows. He closed his eyes, and as he tried to sleep again, to push the dark thoughts away, he found himself yearning and searching for that irreplaceable warmth that had once been by his side—the warmth he had extinguished.
3 Years Later
"Hey Pops! Pop!"
"Hm? What is it?" Kiritsugu asked, eyes fixed on the silver moon hanging above them.
"If you're gonna sleep, do it in your bed," the child next to him chided.
"Right..." He laughed.
"I'm fine." Kiritsugu's gaze grew distant, lost in thoughts of the past. "When I was little, I wanted to be a hero."
"What? You wanted to be? Did you give up?" Shiro looked at him, golden eyes curious.
"Yes, I did. Becoming a hero has an expiration date. When you grow up, it's hard to call yourself one." He stopped to let out a soft chuckle before continuing. "I just wish I had realized that sooner."
"I see. Then I guess you can never be one, huh?"
"No, I never will." Kiritsugu let out a ragged sigh. "It really is a nice moon tonight."
"Fine," Shiro nodded. Since you can't do it... I'll be one for you." He set his determined eyes on Kiritsugu.
"Hm?"
"You're an adult now, so you can't do it anymore." Shiro stretched his arms and put them behind him, as if explaining the simplest thing in the world. "But I still can, so leave it to me—your dream."
"All right," Kiritsugu said, his eyes crinkling up in a smile. "I'll do that. I can rest easy now."
Iri, he thought as he closed his eyes. He could feel his body relax and let the cold sensation take over him. I can finally join you now...
Kiritsugu let out his final breath, and for the first time in years, he was free.