CHAPTER ONE
THE BOY WHO LIVED (TWICE)
The Emiya family, of the northern end of Miyama where the Japanese-style houses were, could most likely not be farther from normal, and they were fine with that. Not that anyone expected them to mix with any sort of strange or unpleasant business, mind you; should you take the time to ask the neighborhood what they thought of the pair that occupied the Emiya Estate, you'd most likely get a series of similar answers — tales of how helpful the young son was, of how sickly the father was becoming, the likes.
Ask enough, mind you, and you'll probably hear about the story behind such a lovely pair of father and son — for no one is above some gossip, and most of Miyama was there to witness little Shirou's adoption and knew what had happened to cause it. A tragedy, of course, but at that point, mostly everyone knew what a tragedy the great fire of Fuyuki had been, and most avoided mentioning it altogether. Instead, they focused on the sweetness of this post-tragedy; it was nice to see people so deeply wounded by the fire find a family in each other.
Mister Kiritsugu Emiya was an enigma; clearly wealthy, of course, or he wouldn't be able to afford the comfort with which he and Shirou lived, but other than his mysterious and surprisingly long sudden "Working Trips", Kiritsugu seemed happy to just laze about with his son all day. The keener of neighbors around were glad to gossip about that, too, of course, but the nature of his & little Shirou's presence there made it so that most avoided crossing an unspoken line.
Curiosity was all fine and good, but cruelty, not so much. The Japanese valued normalcy more than most, but none there were tone-blind enough to mock the victims of one of the country's largest tragedies in recent memory.
As for the son, his name was Shirou Emiya, and there could very well not be a boy that kind anywhere else. With his auburn-red hair and his soft hazel eyes, the boy had an appearance almost as exotic as nearly everything else about him. Stranger still was the odd, lightning bolt-shaped scar that decorated the boy's temple just over his left eyebrow. A leftover from that terrible, terrible fire, most theorised. The boy himself didn't much care for showing it or hiding it, and so it usually peeked out between his choppy long bangs of scarlet hair.
When the young boy had first moved into the Emiya estate, he had not known a single word of Japanese — chattering away with Kiritsugu in an oddly-accented english that led the man to assume him a native of England or the surrounding areas. Against his clear will, Kiritsugu had, in fact, looked for Shirou's original family by looking through the official means… and found nothing.
The Fujimura's young daughter, a long-time friend of Kiritsugu, had taken to visiting not long after. Most would agree that the man spoiled her a little too much, but while the girl could be loud and irresponsible, it was clear that she cared for both Kiritsugu and his son, to whom she ended up becoming an older sister and teacher — Taiga's desire to become a teacher was only validated by her experience teaching little Shirou Japanese.
Shirou himself didn't remember any of it, of course. Psychological and physical trauma together had accomplished what most would think unthinkable, and the boy had only the faintest inklings of the life he had led before. What little he had offered his adoptive father and sister had not really been all that comforting, either; "They called me boy", Shirou had once told him. "I think I lived in a...cupboard?"
Needless to say, they hadn't tried to refresh his memory much after that.
An odd family, most definitely. But though they were strange, and loud, and completely broke the boundaries of what was normal or even acceptable at times, they were good, kind people trying to make a life for themselves after horror.
As for little Shirou, it was hard to fault him for his issues when most of them were the fault of the flames that had devoured him.
It was fine, most of them thought, looking at the boy with admiring pity clear in their eyes. The list of the victims of the Fuyuki fire was enormous; the list of survivors not so much.
Only one name would be found there.
So, it was fine.
He was, after all, the boy who lived.
"Good morning, Dad."
"Good morning, Shirou."
Nearly four years had passed since the Emiya family had been formed, but Miyama had hardly changed at all.
The sun still rose from beyond cloudy skies and mountains in the horizon, bathing the place in a soft and pinkish light that was almost picturesque at times; each and every blade of grass in their yard was softly illuminated, and so was the wood of the shed that stood outside. Though it was early, the lights within the Emiya Estate were already on, and already the two residents greeted each other with soft smiles and nods.
"Early day today, huh?"
Kiritsugu Emiya was a tall and thin man with the look of someone who was constantly struggling to draw breath. Though his posture was good and his expression was one of calm contentment, there were shadows under his eyes and a quiver to his hands that denounced both his bad health and his silent suffering. With shaggy black hair that stuck out in odd directions and stubble on his face that he didn't really bother shaving all that much, Kiritsugu's face of strong features was accentuated, drawing attention to his dead eyes that still managed to exude comfort.
The man had supposedly encountered something very, very vile in the year he had rescued Shirou from the fire, and thus had been cursed for the rest of his life. Though Shirou knew this — and their non-Magical friends knew a version of it, believing the man sick from a terminal disease — the boy found it hard to come to terms with the reality of the situation, especially as the older man lost more and more of his energy without losing any of his liveliness. Because of that, seeing Kiritsugu up at this time in the morning was a rarity.
But Shirou wouldn't say that out loud, and so he nodded with a soft smile and turned on the stove, taking comfort in the sizzling sound that reached his ears as he began preparing breakfast.
"Yeah," he told his father. "I want to get breakfast ready before Fuji-nee gets here. You know how she gets."
Kiritsugu chuckled heartily at that, nodding his head as he observed his son walk around the kitchen with surprising familiarity, opening cabinets and picking up components without as much of a second's thought. It wasn't uncommon for Shirou to wake up earlier than most, but he usually spent his early mornings in the shed practicing his Magecraft — the thought alone made the elder Emiya want to sigh.
Still, despite some difficulties, it was a good, good life that the Emiya family led.
The rice was cooking only a few moments later, and Shirou had his hands full with a bowl of miso soup he was carefully preparing by the time the two of them heard the faint ringing of the mailbox outside. With a pause, the two Emiya exchanged a flabbergasted look, for while the Emiya Estate was certainly equipped with a western-style mailbox, it had always stood as more of a decorative piece than anything else.
Kiritsugu blinked, then chuckled; with a wave of his hand, he smiled at the red-haired boy who had returned to his cooking with relentless focus.
"Shirou," he said, "won't you go get the mail?"
"Sure," the boy immediately replied, sounding a little distracted. "Just let me finish with the miso."
Some more moments later, and Shirou laid down his cooking utensils (temporarily) and left Kiritsugu with clear instructions to not touch anything. With it being that early, the boy didn't much care to take off the soft pink apron Kiritsugu had given him as a joke; the door creaked open as the cold morning air hit his face and he walked to the front door, opening it to check the mailbox.
- There was only one letter laying on the metal mailbox; an envelope with no stamp and made on some sort of yellowish parchment, with letters written in emerald green. It was written in english, a fact that Shirou's bilingual brain took no more than a second to recognize. More confusing still, however, was the person to whom it was addressed:
Him.
Mr. S. Emiya/ H. Potter
3-5-3 Cha-ku
Miyama
Fuyuki
"What was it, Shirou?" Came Dad's voice from inside.
Shirou stared at the letter in his hands, feeling strangely conflicted for a moment, before sighing.
"I think it's a prank."
Before y'all folks ask about SaS, this story is entirely pre-written, and has been finished for quite a while. Like, 2-years a while. T'was the result of a challenge.
Just felt like tossing this here to see what people thought about this old thing. I do apologize for any possible mistakes. If somehow people like this, I'll, ah, pray for their souls and hope they develop good taste for writing at some point in their lives.
