A Shoulder to the Wheel
by SMYGO4EVA
Shirou thought he could save everyone, be the hero of justice that he was born to be. It wasn't just a fleeting dream. It was something more sacred than anyone can fathom. It was what revived him from the death that was inevitable by what he had done, all in equal measure.
Archer believed that it was all for naught. It was all a fledgling ideal; it was no use trying to save everyone. In the end, the world would be beautiful in its destruction. He tried to be the hero that he was seen as, only that harmoniously sweet and innocent ideas were only ideas that thrived in fantasies, and no more. He couldn't wash away the blood from his hands, the scars that never healed upon his flesh, and his countless blades were the only constants in his existence, in his lifetime.
He didn't truly believe it until witnessing the one who was himself in another life, Shirou, as he tirelessly fought against those who wished his loved ones harm, against those who saw his ideals as trash and nothingness. Archer himself thought that Shirou was a fool, only chasing smoke and mirrors, that is, until they had clashed blades time and time again. Shirou stood before him, in their shared reality, wearing the blood and scars from battle with determination, a fire in his eyes.
Archer's blood ran through Shirou's veins, as they were one and the same. The Heroic Spirit saw no hatred in the young man. The journey within was all it took, and not a speck of loathing was found in them, not much longer now, consequences be damned.