Chapter Three: The Jaws of Demise, Part One

Shirou shrugged the bag off his shoulders and began removing his armor. Yoma blood had dried into black crusts that flaked off the metal. It left a foul, pungent smell that nauseated him. He was glad to be rid of it. As he stripped his equipment and left it on the barracks table for the others to sort, the door creaked open. A face that was growing increasingly familiar appeared. Harold strolled inside carrying a woven basket covered in a faded blue cloth.

"Another one, eh?" Harold asked dryly. He picked up the gut-covered sword leaning against the leg of the table. "The other recruits are complainin' 'bout the mess you leave behind."

Shirou blinked. "It's not my fault the yoma bleed when I stab them."

"You can certainly bleed them less."

"Only if they stop struggling."

"I heard what happened. You're becomin' somethin' of a good luck charm around here."

"Harold, I've fighting yoma on every one of my patrols since I've started," Shirou grumbled, rolling his neck. Both heard a crack. "I can hardly consider that good luck."

"Maybe not. But it's not that way to the others."

"What do you mean?"

"The men on your patrols end up comin' home. And all of them thank you."

"I'm just doing my job. You're the one who got promoted, captain."

Harold grinned and shrugged, setting the sword back against the table leg. "Well, they can hardly promote a man on duty for just a month. You'd be the target of envy—though that might change soon. Do you know how many requests I've gotten from the others to transfer into your rounds? The paperwork is killin' me faster than any of the yoma out there, I'll tell ya that."

"You're just being lazy."

"Here." Harold shoved the basket into Shirou's arms. "Sherry wanted you to have that."

Shirou lifted the cloth. "Bread?"

"Aye. You've got somethin' of an admirer in her." He leaned in close.

Shirou frowned. "Hmm."

"Shirou!" A man Shirou recognized but didn't remember the name of approached them. He seemed awkward. "The guys were wonderin' if you were makin' dinner again."

"You're making dinner again? Why didn' ya tell me?"

Shirou rolled his eyes. "I'm not. Sorry, but I'm a bit tired today. Maybe on an easier day."

The man's shoulders slumped a bit. "It's alright."

Harold eyed the man as he left. As soon as the guard was out of hearing range, he whispered, "Are ya really makin' dinner or what? The wife's been askin' if ye'd come over. That dish with the dried fish really set her to learnin' from ya." He paused. "And I wouldn't mind eatin' that bird dish again."

Food culture—that was one thing Shirou picked up in his month in Rabona. Many of the dishes reminded him of the food during Europe's Middle Ages; bread, cheese, vegetables, few meats and lots of alcohol. The variety available to him was greater than he expected, for as far as he could tell there were no nobles in the city. While bread was the cheapest food available, the other types of food wasn't so outrageously priced. It was a small mercy that he welcomed with open arms.

Then Harold stumbled upon him cooking and everything went to hell.

"No, I'm not making dinner. I'm tired. I'll just make a stew, eat some bread and cheese, and call it a night."

"Oh." Shirou could see the hope disappear from Harold's expression. "Well. That's fine then. We were having a roast t'night anyway." Harold hesitated, licking his lips. "Can you make a roast?"

"Yes, I can."

"Are you sure you're not making dinner? I mean, I can talk to Anne, tell her to—"

"Have a good night, Harold." Shirou glanced towards the dozen off-duty guards who were listening in. He regretted bringing that pie over last week. "Good night, guys."

The door shut behind him. He took a deep breath of fresh air, which lifted his mood quickly. It was times like these he hated how his nose detected magical energy—in this case, coming from the yoma. There was never a chance to figure out why, but he had guessed the reason: Herman. Perhaps Herman had engineered monsters like yoma and unleashed them upon this land? It was a farfetched theory full of holes, one being the inconsistency in time. After all, yoma had existed in this land for much, much longer. But Shirou couldn't shake the idea that Herman was somehow involved in the existence of these monsters.

When many of the Fathers were the gentle, friendly kind who lived for spirituality, Father Mason was not one of them. He had a wizened look, yes. At first glance he seemed not so different from the other Fathers with his balding head and wrinkles. And yet instead of the grandfatherly demeanor many of the other clergyman possessed, Father Mason was a cold, conniving politician through and through.

"Sid," he said as he took his seat at the desk. His office, full of books and parchments, held a single statue of Teresa and Clare. It was quite dusty. "I have heard of a new recruit in your ranks."

Sid guarded his disdain for the Father behind a stoic mask. "There have been a few. Which do you refer to?"

"The one that does not attend mass."

"Which one is that?"

"The one your men have been talking about." Sid raised a brow. "Yes, that one."

"Did you need something from Shirou?"

"So that is his name."

"Shirou has been on duty for a month now. He has displayed great aptitude in his job." Father Mason rose and began pacing the room. Sid seethed within; for one he hated the way the Father played his hand so often, nudging this way and that, like a child playing with a toy. The last thing he wanted was Shirou to be under such an influence. "Did you find something inadequate with his work, Father?"

"No. Far from adequate." The Father shut his eyes. "He needs to attend mass."

"I do not believe he follows Teresa and Clare," Sid said.

"He is a heathen?" Sid nodded slowly. "Then get him out of here."

"Is there a reason why? He does more than his own share!"

"Because the goddesses will not stand for a heathen in this city, where he spreads his unrest and taint! This land is for the faithful, and I will not have anyone less here."

"He keeps my men safe. He protects this city better than anyone I've ever seen."

"Sid, child," Father Mason began, his thumb and forefinger pinching the bridge of his nose. "I know how you hate the way I push these issues. It is unbecoming for a Father to be anything but warm and forgiving." Sid held back a scoff. "But you see, if I do like the rest of my peers and look away, I will be exposing the city to a very possible danger."

"Danger? What kind of danger is there?"

"I don't expect a boy of your position to understand the political situation in our fair city. But if you trust anything I say, trust me when I say that your recruit is an outlier that may lead to instability."

"Then explain it to me."

Father Mason sighed. Sid hated it when the Father treated him like a boy. "You understand that the strength of our city exists in the unity of our city's people. Us Fathers lead, you guards protect, and the rest provide.

"This allows us to function as a great machine in this harsh land where the yoma will tear us to pieces if we are the least careful. We count on the teachings of the goddesses Teresa and Clare to guide us all in the right path." The Father turned a studious eye to Sid, who was listening to the lecture rather astutely. "The teachings are strict but fair. It gives us all the strength to continue by faith and discipline. We are united under a single belief.

"In comes your recruit, with a different sense of value. Different beliefs. He proves more than capable against those monsters. The people admire him, pursue him. Ideologies clash. Our order falls apart."

Sid blinked. On one hand, the Father's words sounded much like bigotry. On the other hand, there was a logic in his explanation, a possibility that sounded farfetched—but possible. "I do not believe," Sid said slowly, "that Shirou represents a threat."

"Can you guarantee his loyalty?" the Father asked.

Sid hesitated. Shirou was a mystery even in the month he had been in service. Shirou was a reliable man, but had been a prisoner. The captain wanted to believe Shirou was loyal, and yet the weight of his responsibilities held him back. In the back of Sid's mind, there was always the chance that he was wrong. And when he was wrong, the blood that spilled would be that of his men and the people.

"No, Father."

The Father regarded Sid for a quiet, stifling moment. It was like many years ago, when Sid was a child who had gotten into trouble and was reprimanded in a stern but gentle way by one of the Church's students.

"Perhaps I shouldn't be telling you this, Sid," Mason said softly. "I believe more in survivors than saints."

Sid had a questioning look.

"This world of ours is unforgiving. We need all the advantage we can get. If you can convince your recruit to help us, stay with us, or guarantee me his loyalty, then..." Mason shrugged. "Then I may be able to do something about the Fathers' unrest."

"The other Fathers?"

Father Mason chuckled. It caught Sid off guard—Father Mason never laughed. "You certainly don't think I am the only one to have noticed your friend, do you?"

"But they haven't—"

"They are better at this than I am. It's practically a requirement."

"I-I didn't..."

"You are free to go. May the goddesses bless you."

It was at the stroke of dawn when Shirou heard a knock on his door. He pulled away from his breakfast of fruit and bread to answer. Standing at the foot of his door was a young woman, shorter than he was by a head. It was difficult to consider her pretty in comparison to the women he knew in his earlier years, but she was definitely more eye-catching than most of the local girls.

Even if she was only fourteen.

Shirley had a rugged head of dark ginger hair, cut shoulder-length by what must have been a knife or crude scissors. It was covered by a white scarf dotted with red flowers. Her lean figure hid beneath a pretty, if large, red woolen dress. Her callous hands clasped in front of her over the handle of a straw basket of bread, a shy gesture that did not match the curious and hopeful gleam in her eyes when they made contact with his. Her face was one he had seen much too often the past month; indeed, she had visited even more than Harold did. If he tried, he could guess the number of freckles she had on her face.

Shirou swallowed dryly. "Shirley. Good morning."

"Good morning to you too, Shirou." She lifted the basket past waist-high. "Mother sends her regards."

"Another? Harold brought the one you sent through him just yesterday." He accepted the basket nevertheless and invited her inside. She entered nervously, her eyes flitting around the house with abject curiosity.

"Mother wonders whether you will be free to help at the bakery later today," Shirley said.

He cringed inwardly. It happened once. The bakery was practically next door, so he borrowed their ovens to make pumpkin pie. The pie was a congratulatory gift to Harold for his promotion. Marian, Shirley's mother, found out and had him bake more for the bakery to sell. They sold remarkably well, and Marian had been hounding Shirou to help out ever since.

Not to mention the not-so-subtle push she gave Shirley when it came to him.

"I will, maybe," he answered. He set the basket on his table, beside the other basket of bread he had gotten from Harold. "My patrol ends early today, for some reason."

Shirley nodded, fidgeting with her fingers until she pried them apart.

It wasn't hard for him to see that she had a crush on him. After Sakura, these signs became painfully obvious. He hoped there would come a time when he could politely turn her little infatuation away, or that she would grow out of it, but that time didn't seem to be soon.

Shirley spoke up again. "And father, he wishes to ask if you would be available for dinner tonight."

He cringed again. After Harold roped him into having dinner with his family—which quickly led to the exposure of his cooking talents—Shirley's family found out and did the same. He figured he had passed some sort of test, as Jonathan, Shirley's father, seemed rather interrogative of him that night.

But could he blame them?

During Europe's Middle Ages, peasant families married their daughters to other families as a way to establish bonds between families. There were political reasons as well as socio-economic reasons for marriage then.

It wasn't too different in Rabona. Shirley's family owned a bakery—which made them relatively well off—but it didn't change the fact that Jonathan and Marian were getting older and that Shirley was unmarried. Even with the protection of the city's walls, families living in Rabona craved what extra security they could get. And Shirou seemed to represent that for Shirley's family; he could succeed their bakery; they would pay little dowry because he had no family; and he could protect them in times of need thanks to being a guard. Save her marrying a rich merchant, Shirou was Shirley's best chance at a more pleasant life.

No—it was likely far more complex than that, but that was what he understood.

They didn't need him, but they were close to it.

And as much as he wanted to help them, Shirou couldn't marry a fourteen-year old. Even if girls married as early as twelve. He needed a way to explain that without hurting her.

Before Shirou could respond, a guardsman barged inside in a hurry. There was a brittle edge of panic in his voice.

"We've got a problem, Shirou. Help me fetch everyone," the guardsman said.

Shirou sighed inwardly. "Sure. We'll have to talk later, Shirley."

The girl shrank back, nodding quietly. He pretended not to notice how she lingered near him before taking off back to her bakery.

He grabbed a bun that wasn't too hard to chew from one of the baskets, tossed another to the guard, and left.

The ramparts were alive with activity. Guards arming themselves with swords, javelins, and bows. Guards carrying supplies all across the walls. Shirou found himself swept up in the chaos without knowing what was happening. It wasn't until he climbed to the top of the walls, a score of full quivers in his arms, did he find the cause of commotion.

It towered in the distance like a swaying pillar of putrid grey flesh. Eight spidery legs, each as tall as the cathedral, crossed the valley surrounding the city in slow, sure strides. Shirou blinked as he saw things fall from the monster as it moved. Its skin was moving. He blinked again and realized the tower monster carried hundreds of thousands of yoma on it. He vaguely recalled the image of a hairy spider, covered in hundreds of its tiny infants. But this one was less a spider, more a giant virus—stalk, tails, and all. He quietly turned his Reinforcement on, feeling a single circuit flooding with heat. His vision magnified like a long-distance scope. His eyes honed in on the carrier yoma, studying the hundreds of gaping maws that each held thousands of sharp teeth.

What caught his attention lay at the top of the tower of flesh, where he caught the opening of a maw filled with yoma. The sight froze the blood in his veins.

"Incoming!" he shouted at the top of his lungs.

The maws spat. Black masses covered in thick saliva sailed across the sky. Some collided into the walls like cannonballs, causing small tremors beneath the guards' feet. Others flew right over the walls, plummeting straight into the city with thunderous crashes.

One smashed into the parapet. It was a perfect sphere of a black, hard substance. It must have been considering it remained intact after being used as ammunition for what must have been a yoma's improvised artillery barrage. When Shirou's eyes found it, they widened and he drew his sword, opening two more circuits to Reinforce his weapon, his armor, and the rest of his body.

The sphere unfolded along the grooves of its surface. Several spindly legs emerged from within the sphere's tucked folds, finding purchase on the parapet's stone. The smooth sphere broke into smaller, curved plates, sliding beneath one another until the mass reshaped itself into an enormous curled creature. Its head, tiny compared to the rest of its body, swiveled on a thin joint until its bony head locked onto the guards surrounding it. Mandibles stretched, and a thin tendril shot out of its mouth, spearing an unfortunate guardsman.

In the few seconds it happened, Shirou ran, reaching the monster with an unholy speed.

Shirou's sword rang against the monster's shell. The rest of the guards backed away when they saw what they were up against. A brave duo dragged their fallen comrade out of the way.

Hard shell. A carapace? Too much effort to penetrate it.

He backed off as the monster shoved its body at him. The tongue lashed out; he caught it with his gauntlet, the Reinforced steel screeching as the appendage dragged across the surface, and swung his sword down on it. It cut off easily, and he threw aside the squirming piece.

He struck at the legs, feeling them break easily.

The monster sagged towards him. His sword plunged easily between the gaps in its shell. Dark blood rushed out as the yoma squealed in dismay.

Then his sword found its thin neck and its head rolled.

As the body collapsed, he turned to the other men. Their stares were a mix of awe and fear. "Hit the legs. Cut off the tongue. Aim for the gaps. Don't stand at its front. Cut off the head and it dies."

They nodded.

He looked over the edge towards the city and saw other shelled yoma in the streets. "Go!"

As the guards scattered, all terrified but organized, Shirou returned his attention to the carrier yoma just in time to see another volley of shelled yoma flying at the city.

"Damn."

a/n: Sup.