The world was lost in a flash of blue, and within the realms of man and God alike was the answers to each prayer he had instead left unsaid.

What he wanted was not just the weapons to be realized, but to touch the strings of the tale behind their visage. Not just steel proved by mettle, not just a tool with which he could spill blood upon the floor, but a beacon to sacrifice, something just as empty as he was.

They were within his soul, those swords. He had already seen then long before laying eyes upon them, and when he did it was by reproducing a sight that wasn't his. Blueprints, marks, tales, symbols of emptiness they were, those married blades of Yin and Yang; Kanshou sang to him like a siren at sea and Bakuya weaved the wind around his heart with a surface like marble given life.

This Emiya Shirou couldn't project such swords by himself. Instinct told him as much, urging him to tug on crimson fabric that should envelop his arm, loosen the restraints around his soul at the cost of losing such soul to the winds of times beyond, to draw on (his) life instead. But the Shroud was gone, lost to the cold oblivion of nonexistence, and what once was a dangerously easy source of pain and power to access now seemed to lie buried beneath an abyss of shadows like ink.

If he focused on it, he could feel it there, under the sea of stars he envisioned; a pool of sorrows to draw strength from, a sea of ghosts to get lost in. If he jumped in, all of his questions would be answered, but the cost would be too high and the promise was as worthless as the snow that fell before the thunderstorm.

Shirou pulled, instead, from the little he had seen with as much care as he could muster.

Conceptualize, visualize, construct, and simulate. The married swords were such not by magic but by nature, connected by more than what is physical. In their hollowness was the love of two lovers separated, one thrown into the flames and another punished for such passion.

"Trace on."

The azure lights contorted and gave shape to what was once purely mental, a quivering breath escaping his lips as a strange wet warmth trailed down his face. Their story flooded his heart in a constant rhythm, each strike of the hammer against metal solidified in the creation of his soul's unerring product. But with that history came another, one by another's hand; decades of experience forcing their way into his head.

He would take it, pull on it. Grasp the crimson gleam within his mind —

And pull.

"...Tch!"

Fire coursed through his veins.

He knew now how to strike and when to parry, how to jump, and when to dodge. While holding these flawed blades of his own making, he could emulate the skills and thoughts that another had put into them, steal from their effort, and pillage the gains.

They flowed into his being like a flood would into a sand castle, crushing whatever meager defenses his mind had put against its weight.

With each passing second, he knew more, each moment translating into a decade of warfare ingrained into his instincts — not the proper memories but an echo of their scars, instincts he was vaguely aware of that weren't there before. Bitterness, too — so much of it.

And, of course, more pain.

He felt a sharp kind of agony behind his eyes, and it kept growing until it eventually became unbearable. Decades of work, decades of sweat, centuries of blood poured into nothing. Information, free and unrestrained, at the cost of more and more pain, until his threshold was reached. Muscle memory without the muscles it belonged to. Skill without the time to justify it.

— Sorrow, too.

The projection was finished, and the boy with the white and red hair fell to his knees, breathing heavily and holding onto a pair of married swords as if a dying man to a promise of salvation. Twice now he had brought these words to life, and each time he had failed in a different way.

Before, against the man who'd been turned Devil, he had lacked the time to yank from the reservoir of forbidden understanding that somehow found a home within the confines of his soul; the result was a pair of blades that looked like the ones in his mind but only superficially.

Kanshou and Bakuya were special blades, works of art that went beyond a mere mortal's steel despite being human in each way that mattered; they were blades with an affinity against monsters, blades that, by having touched the realm of Gods by merit of human sacrifice, had ironically gained an affinity against the inhumane. They were blades destined to return to one another when lost or even thrown, much like a loyal hound to its master.

The creations he had given form to while fighting the Devil lacked both; he had constructed their steel and stolen their skill, but their history was glimpsed upon and little more. They were hollow replicas, projections without value, neither connected not strong against the beast he had been fighting. In that way, they, too, were beautiful; degraded copies of the already aimless, much like he was little more than a shell's attempt at playing human.

— No. That thought wasn't his own. Focus.

Regardless. He understood the change perfectly, for when he attempted to will the swords into being to demonstrate his skills to the Exorcist named Fukushima, the difference between what had been wielded and what he was attempting to create was as night and day. And now, with more time and more energy, he had come as close as he could.

It wasn't enough. The connection was there, but it wasn't the same. The weight wasn't off, nor had he gotten the shape wrong, but it was still imperfect, a phantom, a cry. Close enough to resonate with the steel's own past, but not true enough to hold the same meaning.

And yet —

They were beautiful, beautiful swords. He gazed upon their failure and saw nothing but strength, a testament to their creator's own heart. So much love had been poured into their creation, so much effort… to even attempt to grasp their tale was a testament.

Looking up, he had expected many things. He had expected Anastasia to look surprised, Samiya to look shocked, the Exorcists to look appalled and Fukushima to turn hostile. Instead, when he painstakingly rose his head to state at their reaction from the spot he had taken at the centre of the room, all he saw was a worry.

Samiya was the first to react, jumping from the couch she had been seated on and rushing to his side before his lips could make a sound. She crouched next to him, a strange and primal spark of fear in her eyes he hadn't expected, and placed a hand on his shoulder. She said something, but he couldn't hear it.

Instead, all he heard was —

Static. Unerring and unexplainable static, a horrifying noise born from a thousand swords scraped against one another. It faded out after a moment as if a song that grows quieter near its end.

"...What?"

"Shirou, what the hell?!" was what was said, and it was said as if he had done something incredibly stupid. Shirou met her worried gaze with a pair of confused golden irises, raising an eyebrow slightly.

Had he truly done something that horrendous? No, she didn't look horrified, she looked worried. But why?

"I… demonstrated? The thing I told you I could do. Is it that bad?" He attempted to ask. The pain behind his eyes flared again, and he let himself wince.

A spark of understanding dawned upon her features, and she hoisted a hand to carefully cup the side of his face. Her palm touched his skin, holding his face steady as her other hand gently brushed against the area just under his nose…

And was instantly bloodied. His eyes widened at the sight.

"You started bleeding from your nose a few seconds in. Even your eye looks a bit red at the edges. You didn't say it was dangerous!"

Oh.

He gingerly touched a few fingers to his own face, meeting unexpected and intense warmth. Sure enough, they returned wet with his own blood, dripping to the carpet beneath his feet slowly.

"I… didn't know. It doesn't usually happen, " He finally answered with a faint voice. "I think I pulled on too much."

"Are you quite sure you're alright?" Anastasia questioned him, a flicker of concern in her tone as she cleaned his face of blood with a handkerchief.

Samiya ended up insisting on letting the boy rest for a few minutes before proceeding with the questions. Shirou had protested, of course, but in the end, there had been little he could do but accept her terms and hope she feels a little better.

While he rested, the three exorcists had left the room to discuss what they'd already seen without being overheard. Anastasia had been invited by a meaningful look as they were leaving, but the woman chose to stay by his side instead.

"I'm fine, promise."

Shirou remained steadfast in his insistence. He'd been through worse, after all, and though the sudden presence of blood was probably a reason to worry, he'd much rather deal with the exorcists before thinking about anything else.

— He didn't really like priests. His first thought when he looked at one was usually among the lines of "asshole".

Anastasia frowned. The expression seemed so painfully nostalgic on her face that Shirou couldn't help but feel relief; subdued were the worry and self-loathing he had gotten a glimpse of when they all thought he wasn't looking, replaced by her usual reproaching expression he'd seen some times before. The gleam was still there, but the golden-eyed child opted not to pay attention to it.

"And you are sure this has never happened before?"

A pause.

Shirou thought about agreeing for a few moments, letting the thoughts roam around his mind. It'd be a white lie, after all, and it would most certainly make her feel better — and thus less likely to poke and prod at him. In truth, Shirou wasn't much of a liar, but even he could probably pass this one, considering how distraught she was.

People are likely to believe what they want to hear. Should he decide to tell this lie, she would probably rationalize it somehow — perhaps the 'gear' had been overloaded or something.

In the end, he decided against it.

The boy called Kosetsu owed her this, if nothing less.

"I think it happened during the fight with the devil, but I can't be sure. I was already bleeding by the time that was going on, so it's more a feeling than anything else."

Behind him, his sister interrupted her contemplative silence to look up at them, her eyebrows still scrunched together in thought. Samiya bit her lower lip for a while, inhaling deeply as if deciding on what to say before finally announcing.

"Ignoring the many questions this raised about your safety, I'm… not familiar with any kind of Magic that would cause such a reaction. That kind of immediate physical backlash is more akin to what I hear some Sacred Gears have than anything else, but even then it sounds extreme."

Most of that flew right over Shirou's head. There was a lot about his world he didn't know yet, it seemed. But that was fine, for Shirou was nothing if not determined. In time, he'd do his best to learn all he could. For now, he settled for raising an eyebrow.

Twice now had he heard the name uttered, the term dropped with some degree of importance. "Sacred Gear" — most names regarding the strange abilities he possessed rang in the back of his mind with a soft whistle of nostalgia, something he couldn't help but feel he knew. 'Magecraft', 'Circuit', 'Tracing', and so on; all these were names he knew were true.

In that same vein, he had expected the name of what let him do such things in the first place to hold the same weight, to carry the same thrill and the same meaning. Instead, the name told him nothing. It felt empty, it felt hollow, it felt frail.

He looked at Kanshou and Bakuya, both neatly set aside on the table in front of them. Their blades reflected the dancing lights of the fireplace's flame as if singing tales of the sunset, warm orange faded in their steel colored black and white. He yearned to reach out, to grasp them by their handles, but the urge was suppressed when once again he felt the handkerchief touch his skin again.

"What's a… Sacred Gear, exactly?"

Samiya and Anastasia shared a meaningful look, an entire conversation conveyed through gazes and silence alone. The older woman set the bloodied handkerchief aside, at last, lifting his chin slightly with one of her hands — no, her only hand, he reminded himself grimly — to properly look him over. After a second, a slow sigh escaped her lips.

"It is… A gift from God. To put it simply." Those were the words she uttered, expression unreadable.

'This is hardly the time to talk about the Bible' — The thought immediately assaulted him with a nostalgic sense of disbelief. It was waved aside, however, once the knowledge of this world's truth settled in at last, and he realized with a spark of shock that she might very well mean that literally.

"A gift from God?" He parroted, eyebrows slightly raised, and met only silence.

The seating creaked slightly as Samiya rose from her spot and approached him a little more. Each of her long raven locks of hair was somewhat dishevelled as if she had yet to brush it after waking up. Coupled with the small, but noticeable, bags under her eyes, it all made the girl look as if she'd been having a hard time sleeping.

Which he supposed might be true. He had fallen unconscious and gotten to escape the immediate backlash, but Samiya hadn't. She'd been the only one who'd escaped from that situation unharmed, after all - He could imagine the guilt that came with it.

Yes. Shirou was very familiar with the weight that came with being the only survivor of an event that took so much from the world around you. He'd seen fire and walked through flames, witnessed corpses and scattered ashes. And after the fact, when the dust had settled and confusion had faded away and turned into solemnity, he'd gazed up at the heavens and found himself lacking.

— No, that's not right.

Perhaps, he mused with no small amount of cynicism, to survive was just as cruel as to be devoured by tragedy and taken away. Perhaps tragedies came with unavoidable pain, sealing your fate regardless of luck or ill wishes. You will lose or will be lost.

"Yeah, " Samiya muttered with a bitter voice. "It's a gift, alright."

Anastasia looked over at her, confused eyes quickly shifting into worry, but the girl shook her head and put on a forced smile.

"It's fine, " she continued. "Don't worry about it. Anyway, Lil' Bro… A Sacred Gear really is a gift from God. Supposedly at least. I hear it's a way to facilitate miracles and even out the odds in favour of Humanity, but I'm no exorcist. Regardless, it's… something people are born with. Powers, gifts, abilities — calling them miracles isn't a stretch."

"And these things I do. It's because of a Sacred Gear?" Shirou muttered.

The thought was bitter and almost insulting. The idea that these were things given to him by another, not really a part of him as much as something he'd been lucky to receive, felt like a stab wound to his chest. He ignored that feeling.

"I… they seem to think so, and I have to agree." Samiya spoke with a clearer voice now, void of personal emotion. She sometimes did this, getting into 'explanation mode' after he asked about a book she was reading. "Innate Magic is almost exclusive to non-humans, which doesn't seem to be your case, and though Magic is undeniably broad in applications and schools, your own skills seem to come from within your own body. I would have noticed the circles and calculations just now, had it been a traditional application of Magic."

There was a lot to unpack there; enough for him to somehow feel like he should take notes. But the general gist of it was pretty obvious, and Shirou found himself nodding at her words and remaining silent. He'd let the truth take form before dissecting it, allowing words to flow until a more comprehensible picture could be painted.

Golden eyes travelled the length of the room before they finally rested on Shirou's own pale hands, outstretched fingers bending and moving as he willed them to. Both his hands, yet one felt true and one did not. A gift from God, the memory whispered, and again he felt the bitter truth conflict with his own.

What kind of sick God would condemn someone to a life spent chasing ghosts? The things he did, the things he saw, the ones he felt and dreamed and named 'Emiya' - Were they nothing but echoes of another's life? And if so, why would God birth unto him such a dreadful role?

No. That couldn't be true, wouldn't be true. He refused to accept it, to recognize it. Because if it was, and the flashes of colour and the whispers in the wind were little more than pictures imprinted on a gift given to him by 'someone' else, carrying his name by coincidence or a child's self-projection, the person known as Shirou - whether Kosetsu or Emiya - was a lie and had never existed.

And that would simply fit a little too well.

"...Can we leave?" Shirou muttered, and the spell was broken at once. Samiya reached for him, comforting warmth in the numb coldness of dreadful realization, but for the first time he didn't reach back, and that alone had seemed to burn her.

"Of course," Anastasia answered, rising from her spot and placing a comforting hand on his sister's shoulder. They both gazed at him with something akin to pity for a second. "Of course we can."

Shirou dreamed of many things. Sometimes, he dreamed of the moon. Other times, swords littered a hopeless land overlooked by symbols of one's own futility. And sometimes, he glimpsed upon a memory - someone else's tragedy, a boy who'd lost everything with a smile and a King who'd ruled with a stoic face. Those dreams were the worst, the most intense - echoes of pain and of loss, and the strong, overwhelming sensation of having something to do still, an accomplishment he couldn't touch, a promise he couldn't keep.

Sometimes, however, he dreamed of the sky.

A wide, dark sky, with its darkness pierced only by the many glimmers of starlight one could gather and the full moon on the centre of his view, just beyond his arm's reach. Sometimes, he'd try and reach out for her, covering the bright silhouette with stretched fingers trying desperately to grasp onto something beyond him.

These dreams always felt close to a memory, like his mind was reaching out to them and failing to reach its destination. So he'd be laying on the grass next to a castle, surrounded by the many trees of a deep forest, with the moon bearing witness to every nameless sin he'd given form. He'd simply lay there in his lonesome, a stray spirit in a land of death, until even that was stripped from him and he was forced to awaken and live a life so familiar it felt wrong.

That night, he wasn't alone.

It was hard to tell at first. The silence was the same, the dread was the same, and so was the sadness. The grass under his neck felt as real as he himself ever had, the breeze on his face as biting as the snow had been when hell had tried to claim his soul.

The realization didn't shock him. Dreams were a strange thing in that way, and Shirou's were oftentimes straddling the line between lucid and real. His lips parted to speak her name, the word taking form in his mouth like ashes given a sweet taste —

" [ ]. "

He couldn't remember it.

He could almost reach it, but not quite. What was spoken was true, but he himself couldn't hear it, like static in his chest and screeching metal in his ears.

He couldn't remember it — but he knew it.

The girl beside him giggled, and it sounded like a pair of bells ringing in a Christmas celebration. He heard her exhale, too; a small, soft sound filled with such despair that Shirou almost felt lightheaded.

"Mhm. Or at least what you perceived me as."

Of course.

It was a dream, after all; limited to what his mind and heart could see and feel. It was only fitting that he couldn't have her back, even for these brief moments of wish fulfilment in the lands of Morpheus, because he himself lacked something precious.

Even still, his heart ached like she was real.

"I'm sorry," he spoke, and a single cherry blossom petals danced lazily with the passing breeze. "I'm so sorry."

"You don't even remember, Onii-chan. What are you even sorry for?" She retorted, childish voice carrying a hint of acid. It was deserved, of course.

"I couldn't be there for you. I wish I could have been."

A pause.

The petite girl with the silver hair let her silence speak in her stead for a minute or two, rosy lips parted without making a sound as she let the weight of the bitter nothing settle between them like layers of stone.

"Mm. You left, and now I'm gone. You're gone."

"Yeah. Just like him." Was his response.

He wanted to will these woes into being, to put this shard of a memory into song and paint alike. He had a good life, but there was something missing, and the thought of what was lost alone made him feel like a punished sinner.

— ah.

For the first time in forever, Shirou remembered — truly remembered — something special. A moment, no longer than an hour long, but important. Crucial, even. And now he knew why this all felt so painfully familiar.

Once upon a time, he had made a promise under this same starlit sky.

"You know, Kiritsugu liked to stargaze. We'd just… sit outside and look at the stars now and then. Sometimes, we'd talk, and sometimes we'd stay quiet. It was one of our special things, you know? Not common, but precious."

A night spent outside, father and son both seated on the wooden floor that lined the house and looking at the starlit sky above. A dream he'd inherited, a dream he'd lost — all that given to him by a man who, like him, had lost the world and given little back.

"That's how he died, right?" The girl asked in a whisper, so sombre and inhibited that to fathom alone was painful. She'd deserved so much more.

Or maybe he did. This wasn't [her], after all — merely an echo of his own perception.

"Mm. He went down smiling, you know. I like to think he was happy during his last few minutes"

Another pause.

"Were you?" The girl asked, finally. He let the memories come.

— The attack had been perfect. The enemy was defeated. Twin swords had cut through armor, flesh, bone and even destiny. His defiance was painted in blood on the ground beneath their feet.

But… it was a shame. The part of him that would feel glad just didn't answer.

Then, maybe, he should rest for a bit. His heart was still beating. He should be able to stand back up after he woke up.

So for now…

He could sleep.

The dream overtook him once again — and he finally found the strength to look at her for the first time in his life.

He didn't.

"No," he replied. "I don't think I was. But I wasn't sad, either."

She laughed again. It felt wrong, it felt right, it felt weak. He wanted nothing more than to turn and look at her, to see with his eyes the delicate face of the girl he could see in his heart, but the sky demanded his full attention.

"Of course," Illya muttered. "You're really pitiful, Onii-chan."

And that shouldn't have burned as much as it did.

"Yeah," he confirmed. "I really am."

The dream faded in time, swallowed by death and a wave of white petals. But the name remained on his lips, a curse and a wail and a beckon all at once.

When people had nightmares, they'd oftentimes wake up screaming. Shirou found he woke up crying instead.

Such a Hero of Justice he turned out to be, huh?

And some Author's notes to go with the chapter, despite my dislike for those still being strong — congratulations, citizens. You waited some months for… probably my least favourite chapter so far. And maybe the shortest, but I'm not keeping track.

I was very sick for a while, so I couldn't write as often as I would have liked to. Had other things to focus on and just generally felt like crap. I took a while still to get back to a decent writing schedule.

But I have good news!

You can expect chapter five soon enough. (I'd originally given a date, but... yeah.) I'm already more than halfway through it and will probably finish it today or tomorrow, but I was really unhappy with this chapter in particular. It just wasn't clicking as I wanted it to. This chapter was planned for a while and will be important in the future, but I just… didn't like it. If I didn't have a plan on where to go with this, I would have discarded it.

On the bright side of things: I can promise you all that the next chapter will be…

Quite interesting. For the handful of you who were waiting on the edge of your seats for canon characters to show themselves, rejoice — your wish will now be granted. I think you'll enjoy it. I certainly am - and you can all start placing bets on how that'll happen if you feel like it.

Meanwhile, I've dropped some hints as to what and how exactly Shirou's tracing has been affected recently. As always, I appreciate feedback — I am well-versed in Nasuverse rules, but I'm not even close to perfect, and my mistakes can and will be fixed when I'm warned. As I am doing now.

Also, also, we now have a Spanish translation of this Fic on WattPad. I know. Thank you to Guardian-Of-Akasha for the efforts. Pretty sure it pops up on Google if you search for this fic's name,