Sword After Spring

II - A Land of Snow

As always, winter came as if an afterthought. The progressive whitening of the world around him served as a reminder of all the things he'd yet to lose — because winter was a time of death. It was in winter that flowers would wither and animals starve.

Life was stripped away from its warmth, and a thick curtain of white would remain. And, as he stared into the endless expansion of snow from within the comfort of the room he shared within the orphanage, Shirou couldn't help but find himself caught in the morose progression of it all.

In the faint reflection of his face in the window glass, Kōsetsu met his own eyes in silence. In the reflection's hair, just above the earz the ghost of a red ribbon danced to an inexistent wind's soft tunes, mocking him.

A mirage of purple hair and kind smiles, gone in an instant. And now here he was, the boy named Snowfall, chasing her spectre.

Sometimes, he felt as if that was all he could do.

To wonder, wander and chase.

Questioning the answers to questions he'd never asked, never wanted to ask. Wandering around in the dark, chasing memories he had but never made. And chasing. Always, always seeking something beautiful and foul.

Somewhere out there in the snow, even now, the cruel and kind face of the thing he yearned for and could never name was waiting for him —

And there he lay instead, watching snow kill life like the name he'd been given.

Kōsetsu let out a soft sigh.

"You alright?" Samiya's questioned from her spot on the opposite side of the wall, and he heard a faint creak from her bed. "You — You look a little down."

Her words were soft even in her brash voice, a step above a whisper but below a normal statement. The worry in her tone was always mildly alarming, if only because of the contrast it presented to her normal visage.

In his heart, Samiya was always a sunny presence. Someone with a smile that could melt ice, with a joke to crack or ten. When the warmth was breached and he peeked in, however, Kōsetsu always found himself face to face with someone sad.

She'd been sitting on her own bed, back against the wall and a book on her lap. Her long dark hair was somewhat disheveled, free from the ribbon she usually wore, and she wore little more than a far-too-large t-shirt.

Familiarity did a lot in getting one used to such things.

"...Yeah, " he answered after a few seconds. "I think I'm fine."

A beat of silence met his words.

From the edges of his vision, Shirou noticed that she'd shut the book she'd been reading and was now staring at him. Golden eyes met emerald ones, her affection and concern meeting his own hollow questioning.

There was a lot she could say to that, he knew. She'd always been observant when it came to his cues; it was one of the reasons they'd gotten so close.

But Samiya knew to respect his privacy, and he loved her all the more for it.

"You sure?" She asked instead, and the unspoken tension between them faded once again.

"Don't worry about it," he murmured, flashing her a small smile. "I'm just… thinking."

Samiya blinked, sighed and smiled. It felt a little weaker than he was accustomed to, but fond nonetheless. This, too, felt familiar; she nudged slightly closer to the edge of the bed, crossing her legs over one another and looking at him.

" I see," she murmured softly, like the ringing of a bell. "Penny for your thoughts?"

Another pause.

Shirou's eyes traveled to the window upon which he'd been gazing once again, once again focusing on the faint reflection of his own features that could be seen.

His mess of white and auburn locks of hair were even messier than usual, sticking at odd angles without much regard for organization. He gingerly reached to brush a white lock of hair aside — it was starting to grow past his eyes again.

Might be nearing the time to get another haircut. That would be the normal reaction, maybe.

Instead, he examined his reflection closely, watching as it did the same to him.

His eyes were unusually golden; his hair was unusually coloured. Though it wasn't unheard of for people to have an odd hair color, the way his own locks had gone from mostly white to an equal mixture between red and white had always felt… strange.

It sometimes didn't feel like he was staring at himself.

Sometimes, he'd catch his own gaze in the mirror and feel his heart sputter as if he was looking at someone else.

Someone precious. Yet another echo to chase.

But that always faded away, like everything else.

"Oh, I getcha~" He heard Samiya say after a while, and, looking back at the girl, saw that she'd leaned forward with a small, comfortable smile on her lips, smug and friendly. "Feeling insecure, Lil' bro? I promise you, your hair looks nice."

His face flushed slightly.

Honestly… Kōsetsu had never dealt too well with compliments.

"That's not it, " the oddly-haired boy answered promptly, though he supposed that was nice to know. Though his tone had initially carried a hint of embarrassed indignation, it quickly faded into a soft, bittersweet melancholy, and his lips curled slightly downwards, facing his own hands. "I was just wondering where I got it from."

And here, the beat of silence was long.

He could practically hear the friendliness dying in her voice, replaced by a quiet understanding.

"... Ah."

And yet, he wondered — Had he made it awkward?

Yeah. As the silence continued for another few seconds, he concluded he most likely had.

There weren't many ways to answer something like that, he supposed. Springing it on his sister out of nowhere was asking for awkward silence; doubtlessly, Samiya had been asked that too many times to count. Knowing the girl, her heart had shattered a little bit more each time.

Questioning things like that was normal in an orphanage.

Most of them had never known their birth parents; Samiya, having lived with hers for a few years, was the exception and not the rule. And for a child left to another to raise, a child abandoned at another's doorstep, such questions were inevitable.

Shirou himself had never given it much thought; it felt aimless and cruel, an exercise in self-pity and futility and nothing else. Even now, his birth parents weren't exactly what was on his mind. They felt… removed, he supposed, from his life.

But there was a familiarity to the snow-white locks of hair he'd sometimes find himself gazing at wistfully. He kept looking for crimson eyes in his reflection, and kept finding golden ones instead.

How unusually cruel.

"...D'ya wanna dye it all red?" She asked, finally, her voice quieter, firm and friendly. An offer of support.

But Shirou shook his head almost immediately.

"Nah," he answered. "It'd be a shame if I hated it, I think."

For whatever reason, those words tasted like ashes in his tongue.

(Somewhere, another sister waited still.)

— Release.

The arrow sliced through the air and through the falling snow with gusto, embedding itself in the wooden target with a loud, thwacking noise. Having a good pair of eyes, Shirou was able to see a few small splinters scatter into the air and fall to the floor..

As usual - he hit the very centre of the target.

Having achieved his goal, the boy let the hand holding the bow lower the weapon slowly, releasing the tension he'd been putting on the string. The tip of his index and middle fingers were reddening already, he noticed.

This was Yudaoshi - the lowering of the Bow as stated by the philosophy behind Kyūdo. As usual, each step had been performed perfectly, to the letter.

And yet he felt it was not enough.

The loud sound of clapping attracted his attention, and, momentarily torn from his thoughts, Kōsetsu turned to smile softly at his 'audience', looking his age for once in his life.

Samiya and Miss Anastasia had both agreed to accompany him to the local temple, where they'd all been very well-received.

He hadn't spent that long with the elderly Sister recently — she was always busy managing things, and Shirou was never one to intrude on someone else's time.

"Still a deadshot with that bow of yours, eh?" Samiya asked cheekily, walking up to him with a grin set on her lips.

Shirou chuckled softly at that, condensing the air in front of his lips as the warmth of his breath met the cold air around him.

"I enjoy it."

He said so, simply. It was the truth, after all.

Samiya stepped forward and, with a grin, ruffled his hair with her left hand, much to his embarrassment. The smile on his lips didn't fade, however; there was a warmth to these little interactions he enjoyed quite thoroughly.

"She's right, Shirou-kun."

The two turned to stare at Anastasia, who approached them with smaller steps. She was approaching the end of her 80s, and though she was still in relatively good health, it was only logical that she'd operate on slower speeds.

Through joyful eyes, Kōsetsu took a second to examine her.

She'd probably been quite tall in her time, but as an elderly woman she was in that stage of her life where she grew shorter somehow. Her hair was of a very light gray, not quite as white as his own locks but thrice as aged, and she usually wore it in a bun. Recently, she'd taken to wearing a multitude of flowery pins Aki had designed for her. She wore traditional Nun garbs, so not much of her hair could be seen, but it was nice nonetheless.

"Your aim is impeccable." The sister stated with a kind smile on her lips. Her eyes were of a strange color, amethyst-like in their intensity. "My, I'd wager you could probably get into the Olympics if you wanted to."

Shirou shrugged, a little self-conscious.

He knew she spoke the truth.

After all — through all his years, Kōsetsu Shirou had never missed a shot. But the thought of using Kyūdo in a competitive scene made him uneasy, and the thought of exposing himself to such a degree more so even.

"I guess?" He murmured, more than a little self-conscious at the idea. "I would really rather not, though…"

The two women chuckled.

"I'll say." Anastasia answered. "Still, it's always quite a sight — almost artistic, honestly. The tension leaves your shoulders and you aim the arrow in a second or two at most."

That was something else to note about Anastasia — the woman was also surprisingly observant.

Anastasia had the presence of a woman who was in on some dangerous secret, always examining each corner of a room before letting them walk inside, always acting as if their life was in danger when someone splintered off. Her hands were calloused, as if she'd been used to manual labour, and her walk had a slight limp to it.

Whatever the case, Shirou nodded at the compliment given to his form.

"Kyūdo is… pleasant. I enjoy the steps involved."

Samiya blinked, raising an eyebrow, and chimed in with her own two cents:

"I'd say I hadn't taken you for the kind to enjoy that philosophical stuff, but I'd be lying. That's exactly the kind of thing you'd be into."

Anastasia fixed her with a judgemental stare for a few seconds, but no force could move the unmovable object that was Samiya. Shirou smiled at the exchange, but —

— the edges of his vision blurred.

He blinked, and he was somewhere else. The sun was high in the sky and the light was bleeding in through the clouds. Standing in a beautiful little open Dojo of sorts where plenty of archery equipment could be seen, Shirou found himself standing on wooden floors and staring down a familiar faceless figure.

A boy with wavy blue hair was talking to him. Shirou couldn't recall what about, exactly. And then —

"You're not a part of the Kyūdo Club anymore, Emiya, so take care of your own business."

Bitter words whispered by the biting winds. With a blink, he was back on the temple, but they echoed in his mind still, biting and mocking.

He swallowed dryly, willing these phantom voices away until they returned to Limbo where they came from.

This was his life, and nothing was missing from it. It wasn't perfect, but it was comfortable. He knew that, and would tell himself so every day —

And yet, despite that, his hand tightened around the wooden bow until the wood began to dig into the skin of his palms.

"I'll shoot another one." He announced, and both women shot him content smiles.

He'd have done the same, but —

Dozokuri.

The step in which you correct your posture, preparing the bow to be drawn. Yugamae - readying the bow in your hands, drawing the arrow from the quiver strapped to his waist. Uchiokoshi - raising the bow so that it might parallel his face, holding it above his head as Hikiwake was performed and the string of the bow was pulled and the weapon itself was lowered to level with his head. Kai - the draw was complete. Therefore,

Hanare.

— "my core is twisted in madness." So said the wind.

The arrow was released. His hands tightened as if expecting something dangerous to occur, but nothing but snow and biting cold answered his fears.

Within the second, the shot arrow met it's target —

— splitting the previous arrow in half in its way to the same spot he'd fired upon previously. Two halves of a wooden shaft met the snow under the target.

Faced with two gawking women, Shirou let himself smile, cheeks flushed by the cold.

'No, ' He answered the wind. 'It isn't.'

"Thank you again for this, Kōsetsu -kun."

Shirou waved the principal's words off with a smile and silence. He appreciated the many thanks he'd been offered, but maybe the man could wait until he was done fixing his computer before thanking him again? It was hard to do his magic with someone looking after all.

Thankfully, he was familiar with the intricacies of electrical devices even without the use of Structural Grasping, having considerable experience fixing these kinds of devices. God only knows how many times he'd fixed Anastasia's old desktop. Turns out, delicate things like computers don't often survive long when put in a house with a minimum of 5 children at once.

Go figure, right?

From what he was seeing, the problem was with the man's graphics card image input.

That was troublesome; He wasn't nearly skilled enough to fix something like that without the use of magic — he still wasn't sure what to call the things he could do, so he just called them magic — but using such magic with the principal looking was asking for trouble.

"Say," he started, still messing with one of the cables. "Do you mind fetching a small screwdriver?"

"Ah! No problem at all! One moment, please!"

As he scurried off, Shirou let himself sigh in relief.

Thank goodness for that.

Now that he was free from anyone's watchful eyes, his fingers touched the cold metal surface and he started his process once again. Though he didn't need to say anything to make use of Structural Grasping, he found himself uttering such words anyway;

"Trace, on."

Came his whisper, soft and firm, and with it came the storm and sparks and scolding hot pain traveling through his veins like liquefied flames. His energy traveled the machine's interior like poured liquid, traversing each and every surface and little gap in a second.

The lines of magic — there was a name to it, he knew, but it eluded him still — spread from his skin and into each surface whilst bathing all in faint blue light.

The same blue light he could see shining on his hand, visible from under his skin like luminescent blood or something like that. The second the blueprints were fed into his mind, the light faded away slowly and he was free to act on what he'd learned.

Ah. Like he had thought, it was a problem with the graphics card. Nothing too serious, thankfully; some grease on the HDMI entry port. By the time the Principal was back after a few minutes, Shirou had already fixed the issue and reinstalled the card with time to spare.

"I think I'm done." He said helpfully.

The principal's eyes traveled from his own to the screwdriver he'd brought him, as if wondering what to do with the thing for a few moments before shrugging and putting it on a table nearby. Shirou helpfully turned the machine on with the flick of a button, and the older man was delighted to see the screen turn on as normal.

"Huh. Would you look at that, eh? Thanks a lot, Kōsetsu -kun! Let me get my wallet so—"

Shirou shook his head once again.

"No need, I'm happy to help. It'd feel wrong to be paid for that."

A pause. The man scratched his balding head whilst looking at Shirou like he'd suddenly grown a second head, which in turn made the young boy feel more than a little self-conscious. With golden eyes averting the principal's gaze, Shirou tried to think of something to say to get away —

"You're probably the strangest 12-year old I've ever met, Kōsetsu -kun."

But, at that, the golden-eyed youth chuckled softly. It was probably the truth, too; Shirou was quite aware of his own oddity. He was happy that way, though, so it was fine. As long as he was being helpful…

"I know." He chose to answer simply, and moved to gather his things and leave. "But that's alright.x

The principal's eyebrows were both raised in surprise, and he frantically motioned with his hands to attract Shirou's attention.

"Ah, wait a second, Kōsetsu!"

Here, there was a pause. His attention torn from the gathering of his stuff, Shirou looked up at the principal, who was looking around his office as if looking for something. Curiously, the boy tilted his head and asked a question, wondering if perhaps there was something else for him to fix.

"Yes?" He asked, his tone kind. "Is everything okay?"

The man nodded, but only absent-mindedly; his time and attention were consumed by his frantic walking around the room. The principal seemed busy opening and closing several cabinets and drawers around his office, frantically looking for something Shirou hadn't the slightest idea of.

"Ah, sure. Just… take a seat, won't you? Since you're already here, I'd like to talk to you about something."

Strange.

But Shirou was a nice kid, so he sighed to himself and nodded once, walking to a chair opposite to the one the Principal usually occupied and taking a seat silently. His fingers tapped against his thighs as he watched the principal continue his odd search for whatever it was.

"Ah!" He heard the man announce. "Here it is."

The man grabbed a handful of papers from one of the many cabinets around the office and took a seat opposite to Shirou. The boy tensed up slightly. Anyone who'd ever been to school would agree that this was an awkward situation to be in; Shirou had never been the troublemaking kind, but he still somehow felt like he'd somehow done something terribly wrong.

"Kōsetsu -kun." The principal started, voice acquiring a graver tone than he'd previously used.

Shirou swallowed dryly.

"Yes?" He asked.

"You've attained quite a reputation, you know. Everyone at Aosakuya values your aid, myself included."

Ah.

Well… that was nice to hear, but it didn't answer the question of why they were having this conversation in the first place. Regardless, Shirou let his manners take the reins and nodded graciously at that, accepting the praise in silence despite his embarrassment.

The principal smiled at that, but only briefly.

"However, your teachers have come to me a few times with some… interesting concerns."

And there it was.

"Concerns?" He questioned, raising an eyebrow as he mulled over the man's words. "I didn't think I'd done anything that would lead to someone being concerned for me."

"It's not about what you've done, Kōsetsu -kun. It's about what you haven't done. You've been with us for a few years, but none of them have ever seen you fraternizing with another student for more than a few minutes, nor do you seem to have any hobbies outside of Kyudo and helping around. It's….unusual."

Shirou froze at that. His eyes widened slightly, and his fingers stopped in place.

Staring at the man as if a deer caught in headlights, the oddly-haired boy found that words had left his lips for a moment or two.

Because it was the truth. Of course it was.

He'd gone through all of his school years without really making any actual friends, not really. There were some people with whom he was on friendly terms, sure, but they weren't close in any way, and he doubted any of them would consider him more than an acquaintance.

For the most part, Shirou preferred to be by himself; helping when help was needed and otherwise lost in the land of daydreams.

… it was odd, wasn't it?

In a way, he understood where the older man was coming from. Had he been in the principal's shoes, he too would have worried about his situation. And while he could think of at least 5 answers to that, they all seemed to fall flat before ever reaching his tongue; hollow explanations of a truth without origin.

So he asked himself, for a moment or two, why that was the case. And the answer came as quickly as lightning struck;

He'd just… never bothered to look for a friend, never bothered getting close to anyone.

Because he always felt as if it wasn't necessary.

'I already have the friends I need,' his mind whispered to him as he sometimes looked at pairs of trios of friendly kids his age conversing happily about something. The allure of old habits and thoughts; he'd never really felt as if he had to look for more friends when he had his own to spend time with.

But that wasn't true, was it?

Just another ghost whispering in his ear and remaining at his side unseen. A bastion of insidious cruelty. To what extent had his life been shaped by this?

"I guess."

He managed to say, eyes diverted from the old man's own - instead, they traveled to his own two hands, fair skin stained just slightly by traces of dust and dirt.

Shirou spread his fingers and closed them into fists once, twice, thrice. His hands were - normal, of course. But the feeling of wrongness beckoned forward by the man's words persevered, and his left hand somehow felt alien to his soul.

Somewhere, a part of him dear to his heart withered slowly.

He willed such thoughts away.

"I'm… fine, really. I'm happy this way."

It tasted like a lie even to himself.

The man hummed thoughtfully, though, and did not call him out on it. It was odd, to see the usually jovial principal looking wise for once. Slowly, the man slid over the papers he'd previously grabbed closer to him.

"Your teachers say that you're more mature than most of your peers. Akira-san, your Geography teacher, suggested that you might feel more at home between older children."

Shirou's eyes drifted through the lines of text on the papers he'd been passed, fingers trailing the paper carefully. He blinked a few times, pondering his next words for a second.

"I don't think my grades are good enough to skip a grade." He settled for saying.

"True, but I'm certain you're smart enough to if you wanted. The exam would only take place in six months, so you'd have time to think it over and study. You don't have to, but it might do you good. So, please, at least consider it."

Shirou took the papers he'd been given and nodded. He'd think about it, sure. But there was no way he'd actually do it…

Two hours later, Kōsetsu Shirou pushed open the wooden door to the room he shared with Samiya.

She jumped at the sudden noise of the door slamming against the wall, dropping a pen to the floor. The older girl's eyes, previously focused on a notebook she'd been writing on, immediately settled upon the snow-covered and panting child.

"Holy shit, you almost killed me. The hell happened, lil' bro?"

"I think I'm skipping a grade, " He announced, and Samiya's lips twisted into an 'o' shape, and then further into a wide, mischievous grin.

"Alright," she answered promptly. "I'm interested. C'mon, clue me in."

Winter had always been a harsh mistress, and that year's winter was the harshest he'd ever faced. Shirou shuddered slightly, rubbing his hands against his covered shoulders in a feeble attempt to warm up as he walked into the chapel he'd made his workshop.

By his best estimates, it should be around 2am; it took roughly 15 minutes to get there from the orphanage — and it'd been 1:40am by the time he'd 'd have to look into getting his hands on a proper watch, however; it'd certainly make his job a lot easier.

He'd also probably have to look into an easier way to get in and out of the orphanage at night; he usually jumped out the window, since Samiya was a very deep sleeper, but even he knew he was pushing his luck.

Well, whatever. Now was not the time for such thoughts.

With a sigh, he turned on his flashlight and closed the door behind him, walking cautiously to his usual spot near a wall where he'd laid out a large blanket with some pipes, gears and notebooks laid out to aid him in his 'work'.

He couldn't focus on his research nearly as often as he'd like to; his presence was required at the orphanage more often than not, and Aosakuya was notoriously harsh on late students.

Sacrificing sleep wasn't ideal, but it was necessary if he wanted to get some time to himself. Thus, once or twice a week, he'd sneak away and spend a few hours practicing his magic within the safety of the abandoned chapel. Sometimes, he'd turn his gaze towards the leftover religious imagery left within the place and ask himself if God was watching — for the moments spent within the chapel were some of his most intimate.

Within those ruined walls, the line between Kōsetsu and Emiya could be blurred and redefined however many times he'd liked. Within those walls, he could wallow in his grief without anyone questioning why.

Those nights were his.

In the morning, he'd sneak back in through the front door, claiming he was out for his weekly morning run. He'd received a few odd stares the first time around, but now he was mostly left to his own devices. His maturity was trusted, he supposed, and it proved rather useful.

On that particular night, Shirou was clad in three different layers of clothing, and even then he couldn't help but shiver slightly from the cold. He'd taken care to wear mittens on his way here, and a sweater had been put over his usual jacket and shirt combo, but even that proved insufficient. He shook his head a little to get rid of some snow and settled.

"Trace — "

Shirou closed his eyes shut and called upon his previous experience.

He knew what to do; for whatever reason, it came as naturally to him as breathing. But he'd never actually tried it before. Well, he'd been mulling over this idea for a few weeks now, and he was certain - the time to try it was now. All he had to do was follow his mind and take care not to rush anything. He knew what to do, he knew he could do it.

He wouldn't do this on autopilot. He was ready; he'd do this himself.

The harsh pain that he associated so closely with his magic had long since been dulled by experience, and though its bite was still as bloody as it had ever been, Shirou dutifully ignored it.

Focus on the lines being formed, on the energy flowing through his body. Focus on the image, the blueprint, the way pieces interlocked within themselves. Focus on how it was produced, on its history, its tale, its materials.

Focus. He told himself to 'focus' over and over and over again.

Azure sparks started to emerge like water from a fountain, birthed and pulled by will alone. Only then was the mantra finished. Only then could he begin.

"— On!"

An explosion of blue energy from his palm erupted, and the darkness that previously beckoned the light of his flashlight to allow sight was burned by the energy he brought into existence. Wisps of cerulean danced across the air, crackling energy circling an as-of-yet nonexistent object.

Finally, he focused.

Right. First — Judging the concept of creation. It was a sword, basic and of simple build, but trustworthy in its simplicity. A longsword, almost an Albion. It had been wielded by a nameless knight in the 1300's. And that Knight had …

No. He needed to focus.

Then — hypothesizing the basic structure.

It had been forged by a skilled blacksmith's hands, steel shaped and sharpened for war and war alone. The guard had been cast in copper for some extra protection, and the handle was carefully wrapped in leather. It had seen many battles, and its wielder had grown progressively better at warfare and combat as the sword tasted more and more blood.

Magical energy formed the sword's material faithfully, a conversion opposite to what's seen in nature — energy into matter and not matter into energy.

This was the Magecraft mastered by the one called Emiya Shirou.

Reproducing the accumulated years, all gathered by sight alone in his body that was made out of swords. A blade stored in one's soul willed into being, copied from his very being, his Unlimited Blade — no, he had to keep his mind awake.

He blinked away the roaring static. Focus.

A vision was granted to him, a second spent in sight alone. A memory followed shortly.

And then, pain.

The energy gathered violently exploded in his hands, and Shirou saw himself forced to let out a blood-curdling scream as the magical energy dispersed into the air as if lightning, scattering the many small metal pieces across the floor.

His heart felt like it'd taken a blow from a hammer — no, make that three. Repeatedly, it beat against his chest in a plea for help, drowning out the sound of his breathless gasping in its primal panic. Blood rushed through his blood like a roaring torrent, adrenaline fading slightly.

Finally, Shirou's back collided against the stone floor and he let out a shaky gasp.

All was silent once again.

Nothing else made a single sound — nothing but his own breathing, erratic and urgent, and even that he could not hear. Something had gone wrong. That much was obvious. But he couldn't put a finger on what. He knew he could do it; he'd experimented before, though never with one of those weapons.

What was the difference?

Even as he asked himself that, he knew the answer.

The difference was his resistance.

Shirou knew these spells of his by instinct, acting subconsciously more than anything else. It'd taken a lot of practice to get the conscious grasp he had on Structural Grasping too; at first, he'd only been able to do it while following his instincts and ignoring his conscious thoughts.

For whatever reason, he'd expected that experience to work with projection, too — clearly, he'd been wrong. This was a lot more intense than Structural Grasping had ever been, and his mind had given way under the weight of the sudden influx.

"Damn it."

His words sounded weak to his own ears, surrounded by thick layers of a strange brand of self-pity.

He coughed dryly into his hand a few times, struggling to get up past the electrifying dulled agony that coursed through his body. Shirou ignored it.

What he'd seen then, past the pain and the trance alike —

It was ugly. It was beautiful. A second's glance only, a whimsical image and little more: an infinite expansion of swords. It was the most absurd thing he'd ever laid eyes upon, a world of impossibilities, a world where no life could survive. And in the horizon, looming over him: a pair of spinning gears.

He'd seen it before.

He'd never been there, not once in either life, but it felt familiar. A threat over the horizon, a land of unspoken sin; no, more than that. He'd taken from it. But when?

He swallowed dryly — and thought of the curse he'd been bestowed.

— "Shirou. Is that all I am to you?"

The enemy has asked.

He'd known her. He knew her no longer. He knew himself no longer.

She raised her holy sword once again. (His) swords had already been shattered, but that was fine. Silently, another pair was created. The ying sword and the yang swords - their names eluded him. They had no special abilities, but they were strong weapons.

They clashed again. Another pair shattered; she strikes with her swords and casts him aside.

It was over. He'd long since reached his limit.

However…— if he didn't defeat (her), someone he loved wouldn't be saved.

He broke through his limits. Two more swords were created; and then he knew no more.

No.

Shirou Kōsetsu was fine. Shirou Emiya burned and faded away. In the end, however, they were one and the same.

It should be about time he went home; there was nothing left for him on that night, not really. Still, faced with such a mirage, he couldn't help but say his thoughts out loud.

"What a sad way to die.", Shirou muttered, lost somewhere between a chuckle and a sob.

Outside, the snow still fell, constant and strong. Gradually, the cruel blanket of unyielding white started to suffocate even colour itself; the cold was even worse at night, when shadows enveloped each corner and spoke empty promises of threats you'd never face.

Some boogeymen, however, were more than just a child's nightmare.

Outside the chapel and into the night, a pair of scarlet eyes kept its gaze fixed on the little lamb their owner had just smelled. Catching sight of the young boy who opened the chapel's door and started to walk home, the Stray Devil smiled widely.

It had been too long since his last meal.

Time to rectify that.

A.N:

And here is the second edit. Again, an effort was made to preserve my original style and the original… atmosphere, I guess? I'unno. There's something to it.

Thanks to Fabled Life for some of the information supplied.