"Say what you will, 'tis better to be left than never to have been loved."

He's already forgotten who that quote is by, but the words themselves have stayed with him. They're his whole life philosophy summed up in one sentence, though two years ago they took on a whole new meaning. Now, they're like a security blanket that he clings to for peace, because she wouldn't have wanted him to feel otherwise.

An arrow slams into his left leg and he staggers, reverie interrupted. His momentum isn't stopped, and with a brutal slash Kanshou scythes downwards, removing a swordsman's head as he screams an obscenity. Bakuya parries an opportunistic blow from an axe, sliding it aside and shoving itself into the wielder's chest.

"Still with us, Shirou?"

The familiar voice sounds in his right ear before the bellowing spearman splits in half, blood showering outwards as the body folds along a pattern invisible to normal eyes. From behind the corpse emerges a nineteen-something boy, moving with the grace and speed of a panther as he disables two more opponents with the short tanto in his right hand.

"Does it look like I'm going anywhere?" His own breath rasps harshly in his ears, and with an effort he forces it down. The twin blades move again, catching a hastily-hurled spear and bisecting it as his feet move across the hard, fire-scorched earth.

"To your death, maybe." Tohno Shiki, last of the Nanaya demon hunters and one of the few people he can still call a friend, slips in beside him. The knife moves, and he can't help a gasp as the arrow protruding from his leg disappears.

"I can't believe you missed that arrow. Do you need glasses? I've got a pair you can borrow."

At any other time, he would laugh. Right now, that's the point – there isn't time. The silo up ahead is opening; the Dead Apostle's plan is almost coming to fruition. If those missiles fire, Fuyuki is doomed. The Apostles will have their way with most of humanity for at least a couple thousand more years.

"Have you seen Ciel?"

Shiki sighs, carving another half-mad cultist into chunks of meat. "No, I haven't. The Church's Enforcers were caught up in a swarm of Living Dead; she's probably bogged down."

Kanshou separates a man's arm from his body, while Bakuya splits his chest. "Damnit."

The silo comes into existence before them as they hack their way down the hill. The doors are sliding open, and yellow-marked warhead tips are already becoming visible.

He glances around, sidestepping a frenzied swipe and beheading the ghoul. All around him are the dead and the crazed cultist foot-soldiers. None of his allies are in sight.

Shiki is shouting into his earpiece even as he takes a six-foot tall ghoul apart with his knife. "We're closing in on the silos and need help! Where are you guys?"

In his frustration, the Nanaya heir fails to catch the Living Dead trio approaching his back. The twin scimitars of the moon move instinctively, spraying blood everywhere as he slides to defend his comrade.

It's been a long time since he's fought side-by-side with just one other person. Ever since the Grail War, it was always either the confusion of pitched battles or wild, one-man-against-the-world style brawls. He'd almost forgotten what it was like to depend on someone else: to watch their back and in turn have his own watched.

"I ask of you...are you my Master?"

He pushes the memory away before it can distract him and smashes a foot through the skull of a fallen ghoul. The arrow wound on his thigh is still seeping, but the fact that it's seeping and not gushing is a good sign.

"Damnit!" Shiki returns to his side. "The Burial Agency's bogged down, and the regular troops are withdrawing!"

Surprise almost gets him killed, and only a tsk and a swing of Shiki's knife save him from decapitation. "What?"

Shiki's face is set in a snarl as he takes out his rage on two nearby ghouls, leaping onto them and slashing their lines of death until they fall apart into messy slabs of meat.

"The archbishop claims it's not worth the effort to save the 'heathens'." He spits.

"The idiot! When we're gone they'll hit Rome next!"

"When I told him that he started ranting about 'the power of faith' and how God will protect 'his loyal flock'. That's a stellar job He's been doing so far." The normally-affable demon-slayer is red with anger as another ghoul falls to his knife.

"Senpai, Dawn-san, and Mereem-san are still in the fight, but it looks like they won't make it in time to help us."

No matter how many times Kanshou and Bakuya slash, there always seems to be three more ghouls to take the place of every one bisected. The silos are now yards away, yet it might as well be miles.

"All this, and the guy still hasn't shown himself." Shiki continues. "With all the preparation he's put into this, how is he not an Ancestor?"

Alarms blare their sinister message across the area, but everyone present is either unable or unwilling to heed the warning.

"They're going to fire." Realization makes his voice heavy. "Damnit."

"You thinking we should pull back?" Shiki frowns, ducking a clumsy swipe. "That's not like you."

No, it's exactly like him. It's time he lived up to his ideal.

"I'm thinking you should pull back. Tell everyone to do the same." He fixes his gaze on one missile that is locking into position. "If you can draw the Apostle over here, too, that would be great."

Shiki responds the way he'd anticipated: a hand whips across his face even as the demon-hunter dodges an opportunistic ghoul and slashes its lines with his free hand.

"Don't make me cut one of your lines and drag you out of here, you idiot. I thought we'd beaten that self-sacrificial streak out of you!"

"Either I die or everyone does, Tohno!" He screams in frustration at his friend's inability to see the bigger picture. "Ciel needs to live, Rin needs to live, you need to live!"

Shiki's face sets, and even though they're still fighting through a sea of dead flesh the world shrinks to just the two of them.

"And you don't? Life's too short for you to waste it on pointless things like getting yourself killed! We can fall back, try to intercept the nukes before they hit Fuyuki-"

"The old Association tried that, remember?" he snaps. "Now London's a smoking crater! This Apostle's way too smart! Hell, what I'm planning might not even work-"

"If it won't work, then you're being a bigger idiot than usual!" Shiki roars back. "Do you have a death wish or something?"

"You could say that." His anger fades away as he remembers a remarkably similar conversation.

"This isn't funny, Shirou-"

There's a strange roar, and with a sinking feeling Shirou sees the first of the missiles begin its ascent. Smoke trails out behind it as rocket boosters propel the warhead into the air.

It's time.

Without hesitation, he seizes Shiki by the waist and leaps backwards, pouring mana into his legs to increase his speed. A fist smacks him in the mouth, and a foot finds its way into his groin, but he merely grunts and keeps going.

"Damnit Emiya, don't do this!" Shiki struggles, but his arms are now pinned and his body is only that of a slightly anemic teenager. "Do you have any idea what Tohsaka-san and Matou-san will do to me?"

"They'll understand. Take care of them for me, by the way." A few leaps take him at least as many miles, and when he's judged the distance to be sufficient, dumps the Nanaya heir to the ground unceremoniously.

Shiki springs up, knife in hand. "I said I'll cut your lines and carry you back if I have to-" A fist to the stomach doubles him over.

"Trace, on." A rope appears in his hands and he ties Shiki's hands together, then his legs. Another muttered gesture brings to life a fully-powered refrigerator, humming even though it has no discernable energy source.

It used to be that he couldn't duplicate such a complicated piece of machinery, no matter how much mana he expended. Becoming a part-time mechanic and working in an auto shop before the Apocalypse had changed that.

"You've got to be kidding me!" Shiki explodes. "That movie was terrible!"

"I always liked it." He mutters absentmindedly, opening the door and shoving his friend inside. "Sorry about this, but you should be fine." He palms Shiki's knife and shoves it in a pocket. "You probably won't get this back, but it's for your own good. Really."

"I don't give a shit about the knife!" The demon hunter screams. "Do you realize how many people you're hurting by doing this?"

"Sorry, but there's no other option. I'm not too thrilled on dying myself. There's someone I would have liked to meet, one last time."

The Nanaya's fierce insistence on keeping him alive might have seemed odd to many who knew him, but he had known him long enough to realize that Shiki was actually a little naïve. Though ruthless and pragmatic in combat, his intimate knowledge of death had nurtured in him a burning drive to live his life to the fullest and to enjoy as much of it as he could. The same went for those precious to him, which was why they hadn't gotten along on their first meeting.

They were actually very much alike, he reflects, in their determination to protect what mattered to them. The only significant difference was that his protectorate blanketed everyone in his sight, rather than just those close to him.

"We do what we can, to save who we must. That's enough."

It wasn't, not for him. But it would have to suffice. With a heavy heart, he pushes the door shut, ignoring the muffled curses and threats.

"-throw you naked into an all-girl's school and watch them hunt you down!"

Well, not all of them. Though there really isn't any time to waste, he indulges himself by asking, "Would that be Akiha-san's school?"

The swearing ceased for a brief moment, then:

"Stay away from my sister you bastard!"

He chuckles. "I would say the same to you, but Sakura isn't my sister...and it might actually help."

Before Shiki can retort, he turns, takes a deep breath, and leaps away.

Returning to the nuclear launch site exhausts the last of the mana he'd set aside for combat purposes; the extra speed had eaten through his energy like Saber through his cooking.

Why is he thinking of her now, as he's about to die? The question flashes through his head, and he snorts at how stupid it is. Of course he's thinking of her now. Sometimes, with the state of the world how it is, remembering her eyes and her smile is the only thing that gets him through the days.

Would she approve of what he's about to do? He's not quite sure. Any leader, no matter how brave, skilled, or strong, has to make sacrifices. One moderately talented individual against the last remnants of the human race? That's no choice.

But a small voice in the back of his head voices the inconvenient fact that she was in love with him. He's matured enough to realize that they had been alike, and why it had nearly driven Rin to madness on a few occasions. In this case, she would have pushed him aside and gone herself, trusting in her experience, skill, and power to bring her out. Even if they weren't enough, she would sacrifice herself without a second thought, instead of allowing someone else to pay the price.

In the movies, when someone is prepared to sacrifice themselves for the hero's sake, the hero will staunchly refuse to abandon them, and without fail defeat the villain through the power of friendship, clichés, and plot armor. That was something he used to believe strongly in; offer yourself up and everything will be fine.

Two years of violence and savagery have taught him otherwise. More often than not, something must give. The universe seldom allows victories without demanding its price, and a complete triumph without sorrow almost never happens.

Though it hurts so very much, he's accepted that he cannot save everyone, though that does not stop him from trying hard to help those he can see. As the world became harsher and colder, he'd learned that not everyone can have a happy ending.

But if he can give even one person that ending by sacrificing his own...that's something he's willing to do.

He lands at the edge of the silo, ignoring the moaning ghouls who lurch towards him. The missiles are airborne now, all seven of them. Fortunately, most of them are still close to the ground, saving one that is steadily gaining altitude.

"I am the bone of my sword."

Standing on the scratched and dented metal of the silos, the heroic fool begins his last fight. The cape of red cloth flaps as he walks. Smooth scimitars swing in his hands, ready to be whetted once more.

"Steel is my body, and fire is my blood."

The ghouls continue their deadly march, but he remains calm. Reddish hair flaps in the occasional breeze, and eyes of gold fix upon their target.

"I have created over a thousand blades."

As the seven warheads soar towards the sky, he steps forward. Silver and black gleam, twin blades coming up at his sides.

"Unaware of loss, nor aware of gain."

A deathly hand grabs for his throat. Black steel intercepts the limb, striking it from its wrist in one clean blow. The white saber splits the ghoul's head in two before it can attack again, and a careless backhand knocks the body down.

"Not once have I ever retreated, nor once have I ever been understood."

The ghouls come in earnest, but Kanshou and Bakuya force them back, slashing and cutting to take the simulacra of life from those who once had it.

"I have no regrets, this was the only path. My whole life has been,"

He whips the blades apart, neatly splitting an approaching ghoul, and finishes his chant.

"Unlimited Blade Works."

The sky burns with color, and all around him ghouls cry in dismay as the metal of the silos disappears, replaced by solid dirt. The air echoes with the slithering of metal on metal.

Where before he stood on the cold metal of a nuclear launch site, now he stands on a low hill below a red sky.

And surrounded by swords. They are everywhere, protruding from the hill, lying on the ground. They are the weapons of those whose grips never slackened, and those who dropped them to flee. They are an expression of mankind's conflict, its triumphs and its defeats.

This is his world. Nothing may happen here unless he allows it. And he will not allow the warheads to escape. They roar within the boundaries of his soul, pressing relentlessly to escape the Reality Marble. It is already taking a toll on him, and he must fight to keep the ultimate expression of himself manifested.

He cannot simply hold the Reality Marble until the warheads detonate; he has neither the mana nor the inclination to do so, and he cannot guarantee that the Marble will contain the full force of a nuclear apocalypse. No, he has another plan. While Unlimited Blade Works drains his mana at a prodigious rate, it also greatly reduces the amount of mana required to trace weapons. He will need that advantage.

He holds out a hand, and Archer's bow materializes in it. His feet slide apart, until he's assumed a proper stance, with his left arm out in front, body turned sideways.

The air shimmers as a blue-hilted sword, spiral-bladed and painted a dark silver, appears in one hand. As he concentrates, the weapon compresses, emitting a blinding white light that conceals its form. He sets the sword-arrow to the bowstring and draws it back.

"Caladbolg!"

As his shout pierces the air, he lets the arrow fly, and it streaks away, shedding light and heat as it seeks its chosen target. Another sword appears and compresses, following its predecessor on its path.

He floods his eyes with mana to see his handiwork, but the detonations merely scratch the metal of the warhead. The Apostle must have inscribed them with runes and wardings to protect against magic, which does not bode well for him.

But no warding is impenetrable to the right weapons. Perhaps he is simply using the wrong tools. The bow he inherited from Archer is strong and durable, truly a miracle of craftsmanship. It has never missed, and rarely fails to down his target. But no matter how exquisite it is, it is merely a mortal bow. No magic empowers it or imbues it.

Of all the legendary weapons he has copied since the War, he only has a few bows. Heroes have never considered the bow as a true 'manly' weapon, requiring as it did range. Swords, axes, spears, and shields demanded close combat, where a warrior could test his strength against his enemies and emerge triumphant and vindicated in his prowess.

"Trace, on."

The black bow of the future loses form and vanishes, and in its place appears another of wood, golden and gleaming in the late afternoon sun. It is more ornate, but smaller than the one it has replaced, which is fitting. Its first wielder was, after all, a woman.

Another copy of Caladbolg appears in his right hand, shrinking down into its arrow form. As it touches the bow, power surges through it, turning its pristine white light into that of flashing gold.

The winds begin to pick up, surging around him until he stands in the center of a howling tempest. Ghouls and Living Dead are blown back or toppled by the sheer force of the gale. Strangely enough, the raging gusts do not seem to affect him. He didn't expect this, but it should have been obvious in hindsight.

The copy of Caladbolg seethes with power, far more than he has ever placed in a weapon. If not released soon, the traced blade will explode and take him with it.

So he releases it.

Miugre, the Bow of the Wind, twangs, and the winds whip themselves into a crescendo, until not a single zombie is left standing. Hurricane-force winds wrap themselves around the glowing arrow, speeding its passage and elongating the arrow so that it becomes a streak of pure golden light that punches through the warhead's wards and protections and rips the missile asunder.

The detonation, even from this distance, is visible as a starburst of red and gold. The waves of radiation rock against the foundations of his world, but his will keeps the Marble solid.

Six more.

Another copy of Caladbolg appears in his hand. The winds twine around it, slashing a path through the air and forming a point that splits the warhead's side without requiring the arrow to spend its power. Another explosion.

Five more.

He repeats the process twice more, but on the third try he realizes that he doesn't have enough mana left for even Caladbolg. Instead, he traces six arrows with heads of gold, shafts of silver, and feathers of hawk's wings. These arrows are Miugre's original ammunition, forged with loving care and said to strike true, but penetration, not accuracy, is his concern. He'll have to flood these lesser arrows with as much mana as he can spare and hope that that will be enough.

Miugre's bowstring twangs, sending a flight of three arrows to strike home. Through reinforcement of his eyes, he can see the effects more clearly; one arrow simply lodges into the plating, but another bounces off, creating a wider gap, and the third plunges through the opening. The explosion is much less complete, and pieces of the warhead are free to fall to earth, but it is still neutralized.

Two more.

His arm wavers, and with dismay he realizes that his mana is almost gone. The power required to maintain Unlimited Blade Works is going straight through his reserves; he won't have enough to destroy both of the warheads.

Out of the corner of his eye, he spies movement, and realizes that the ghouls are getting back up. They'll be on him soon, and he's in no shape to defend himself.

He concentrates, plumbing his circuits for every last drop of mana, and a single arrow appears in his hand. Damn, he was hoping for at least two. It'll have to do.

The winds pick up again, and he releases the string. Miugre catapults the arrow forward, another golden streak of light streaking across the red sky. Almost instinctively, he knows the angle is wrong and that the arrow will not find proper purchase.

Which it does not. It strikes the missile, and bounces off, twirling through the air.

"Shit!" It is the first word he's spoken since this desperate plan began. His shoulders slump as he realizes that he's failed.

The warhead wobbles. Even as he watches in disbelief, it pitches to the side, trailing smoke from its thrusters that are suddenly malfunctioning. With a high-pitched whine, one of the rockets dies completely, and the warhead tumbles down, spitting fire erratically.

There's a sharp thunk, and he turns sharply to see the last arrow embedded in the dirt, about twenty meters away.

He has approximately thirty seconds before it hits the ground and explodes. This will be close, but he needs that arrow. He has no choice.

That phrase has been popping up much too frequently. No, he doesn't have a choice now, but he had the choice to put himself in this situation in the first place. He's forfeited the right to complain.

Yet, even as he leaps over the heads of stumbling ghouls, a small, nagging voice reminds him of the one instance where he didn't have a choice.

-the sunlight is glistening off her golden hair and he's drinking it all in because this is the last time and he'll never see her again-

Savagely, he destroys the thought before it can take place. He doesn't have time for this now. He made his choice, and he's at peace with it. She's gone, and no amount of last-minute, two-years late wishing is going to do anything about it.

He lands beside the arrow, and it's yanked out of the dirt. Quickly, he nocks it to the bowstring and turns, aiming it at the final warhead, which is steadily rising. Miugre hums as its tips bend back in preparation for the shot.

The other missile is falling faster, and will make contact soon. This shot won't be his best, but he can still make it work, with some help from the bow.

Miugre was not a Noble Phantasm, for the time it came from had been long forgotten when Hercules and Cu Chulainn raised their weapons. It was not empowered by the collective imagination and hope of humanity, but instead by old magic summoned and bound by the finest sages, druids, and bishop for a specific purpose. When that purpose was achieved, it had been sealed away for untold millennia, only emerging from its resting place once before being forgotten about yet again.

The Mage's Association had eventually found the weapon, buried underground in what could only vaguely be recognized as a tomb, and interred it in their museum without realizing what exactly it was they had. Indeed, the only people who recognized the bow were some of the oldest tribes-dwellers of Mongolia, those who still followed their nomadic lifestyle as best as they could, and even they could only tell him about its creation and the hero who had once wielded it. He suspected that much of that too was apocryphal, but stranger things had happened.

However, the one piece of information about the bow itself was rooted more in belief than even half-remembered stories and tales.

"Feel the bow. Become one with it. It is wind, yes?" the tribal elder had told him. "So you must become wind. Soar, be free."

He shuts his eyes, and tries to become the wind. He remembers being stretched flat on the skin of an airplane, smoke trailing past him as he fires arrow after arrow at the malicious beast ripping the engines apart. The air currents had battered him at every turn, seeking to undermine his grip and throw him free from his precarious perch.

He also remembers standing on the peak of Mount Everest, dueling a crazed vampire seeking some fabled treasure buried inside the mountain itself. There the wind was sharp and cold, biting but not cruel. It whipped around him as it would, obeying nothing but its own whims and desires.

What it is is freedom. He can't remember what that feels like. There has always been some duty or responsibility, whether it was rescuing Shiki from crazed female admirers or clogging a village gate with bodies to protect those inside.

In fact, it may be better to say that he's never felt free.

Once again, the small nagging voice in the back of his head begs to differ.

-he can feel her around him, warm and soft, crying his name, and nothing here matters but them-

The sensations come back to him. Once again he can feel her skin underneath his fingertips, her hands in his hair, her lips on his. He remembers the fire coursing through his body as he lets himself go, and the answering warmth in her eyes right afterwards.

"There is one last thing I must tell you. Shirou...I love you."

A scream rips itself from his throat, carrying all his memories, hopes, regrets, and dreams, and Miugre thrums, launching the arrow forward, and it seems to him that he can pick out a separate emotion in each aspect of the arrow's flight.

Joy fuels the arrow, speeding it forward. Sadness tempers its speed, curving it so that it slides into its target. Anger lends strength to its head, slashing straight through steel and sorcery.

And love, incandescent love, guides it home. The warhead vanishes in a last shout of flame.

In the final, brief seconds before the final warhead hits the ground and ignites, Emiya Shirou lets out a brief, sad smile, filled with love and longing in equal measure. His hands release their hold on Miugre, and Hanon's legendary bow topples to the ground.

"'Yet, these hands will never hold anything,'" he murmurs. "You were wrong, Archer."

The world explodes in white.