Sword After Spring

X — To Rot Here All Alone

Shadows seemed to almost murmur in pathetic consideration for his penance.

In the dead quiet of the ruined chamber, everything within waited with bated breath missing — the boy, the corpses and all of their sins. Each seemed to languish there in morbid silence, a cacophony with not a sound to it at all.

And at the core of it all, Kōsetsu felt the breaking of something precious.

To his right, the pile of victims the Stray had left behind. To his left, the decapitated body of the Stray herself, her face forever contorted into a genuine show of horror. In front of him, Fukushima-san's body, his chest ripped open, his blood still leaking into the concrete below.

Shirou himself sat with his back to the wall — Completely silent, were it not for the soft sounds made by his breathing. Waiting, both for a miracle he knew would never come and for the rescue he knew was already on its way.

It would not take long, now; he'd sent Samiya the message a good 15 minutes ago. She and Anastasia were likely well on their way. All he had to do was — wait.

And so, within the oppressive silence of a room full of corpses, Shirou Kōsetsu was embraced by the writhing shadows and remained as still as that with which he was surrounded. An effigy of life.

Alone.

The Overseer, Rias Gremory, and her peerage had already long since left.

In the end, and despite what he'd been taught, the boy with the messy curls of red and white had given them a good 20 minutes to get away before he called for his family, deciding to do his utmost to avoid any confrontation. He had looked Gremory in the eyes and whispered, softly, for her to go.

She'd said they'd meet again. She was right.

He still wasn't — They were Devils.

But they'd seemed reasonable, like beings who were, despite or perhaps regardless of their nature, capable of thought.

And thus, capable of conscience.

It could just be the wishful thinking of a boy who had always been far too trusting for his own good. A boy who could not stomach the thought of spilling more blood upon that cursed concrete, be it his own or someone else's.

A boy who could not help but see kindness in the eyes of every smiling stranger.

Maybe.

Or maybe Shirou had just had enough tragedy for that day.

Maybe enough was enough.

Fukushima-san's Light Sword lay on his waist, just as his own. He'd keep it with him— a memento of sorts. A reminder of what could happen, what would happen. Memories of Anastasia and her arm were violently brought to the forefront of his mind, but that had been different.

On that night, so long ago, Shirou had reached an awakening. Today, though, was an understanding. A moment of realization, cruel and bitter..

He saw it, now. Better than he'd had before.

So the boy with the mismatched locks sat on the room that reeked of death, the white fabric of his robes covered in the ichor of the stray he had killed and of the man he'd come to kill her with, dry blood sticking to his face, neck, hair and hands as a cruel reminder of what had transpired, and he waited.

In a room filled with death and dead victims.

People who were now far beyond saving.

— Shirou's lips quivered slightly in distaste. His eyebrows furrowed. He took in the sight one last time and felt something in his mind shatter softly; a tiny death, minuscule. Silent.

A plea that had been there, suddenly silenced with a dying whimper.

All the while rushed steps echoed through the tunnel, faintly at first and then increasingly louder. He turned his eyes to Fukushima-san's body, which he'd tried his best to set to rest with his eyes closed and his posture quiet.

He'd failed.

Not long now, he thought, as if speaking to it.

Golden eyes committed the carnage to memory — and now all he had to do was wait, and wait, and wait, until the steps were just around the corner and he had to wait no longer.

From the tunnel, Samiya stepped into the room. Still there were steps coming from it — Anastasia, maybe. Age had been getting to the woman. As for Samiya, the girl was clad in a pair of cargo pants, a thick jacket full of pockets and a shirt underneath that. She wore her same long ponytail as always, her dark hair kept in place by a beautiful ribbon.

In her hand, she held a knife. Not a dagger, either; that was clearly a steak knife of some sort. He'd have teased her about it in better circumstances, his lips curling into the same wry smile and drops of acid sounding like honeyed words.

But this was not such a moment.

Instead, like clockwork, he turned his face to meet the eyes of the girl who'd rushed into the room.

Like clockwork, their eyes had met.

The horror in them, though, was entirely humane.

And thus the scene was set — once upon a time, a young boy who'd once been called Snowfall was found by his sister in a room full of corpses, light cuts across his face and with blood clinging to him like a curse, with the bodies of both the monster and the teacher next to him, treacherously quiet.

And he thought, and pondered, and knew it intimately —

This, too, was Hell.

Samiya stepped forward shakily.

He took in a shaky breath and got up from his spot by the wall, pushing the ground for stability. Then, he exhaled.

Crimson liquid had seeped into the fabric still dripped from the edges of the Haori he had worn, the one that had been so perfectly white. Though Kōsetsu was mostly uninjured, the clothes he'd chosen to wear were ripped in spots and cut in others.

From that, blood formed drops like rain and fell to the floor, again and again. They broke the silence in soft measures, like the echoes of larger sounds poking the world in bitter amusement.

Kōsetsu tightened his hands into fists and decidedly didn't look down.

As for Samiya — the girl took in the sight of him, her expression unreadable, and he found that he could bear the silence no longer.

"Nee-san," he greeted her, voice sounding empty even to himself. "Thanks for —"

'Thanks for coming', he had wanted to say. It felt appropriate, polite, and he really was thankful. His voice, however, failed, flickering out like a whimper. His chest felt heavy.

Why had it failed…?

He tightened his eyes, shook his head. It didn't matter, he thought. It's all okay now.

Samiya said something. The voice came from afar; there was no indication of its position. She was right in front of him, though. He could hear her just fine. It just… didn't register.

There was a corpse nearby, a corpse with a face like Fukushima's, a corpse with a hole where the heart should have (remained) been. There was a corpse nearby, the corpse of a girl torn from her life, her head cut cleanly from the neck by (his) a blade.

He could smell their blood even now.

His mind blurred somewhat.

He stepped forward nonetheless — and found himself hitting something warm.

Ah.

He got it, now.

He sunk into the offered embrace, clinging to the fabric with quivering hands covered in blood. At the same, Samiya let out a shaky breath and pulled him in closer, almost painfully so; he felt a hand in the back of his hair pressing his face into the crook of her neck like he'd vanish if she let go.

It made sense. He himself felt it, too — like he was about to fall apart. Because maybe Kōsetsu was older now. He wasn't a child anymore — that was true.

But this wasn't a child's grief.

This was a horror that struck regardless of age.

Regardless of maturity.

So he sunk into the warmth of the offered comfort. Sunk into the offered platitudes, too, and felt joy at the sound of his sobs being muffled by the fabric.

He had to grow past this, someday.

But he did not want to.

If there ever came a day when he was able to look at such things, and not feel the dread consume him, not feel horrified by the reality of it, then he would have most definitely lost what mattered most to him.

Shirou would take that horrible, desperate despair for what it was. And he would grieve for what had been left of his innocence.

"I thought I'd lost you." Came his sister's words, soft and breathless. She may be crying. Between the static and the intensity of the blood in the air, he couldn't tell.

Still, this would be the second time he'd worried her so, wouldn't it? Shirou really was a failure as a brother. This made for twice. Twice he had left a sister to wonder about his fate.

One, with brilliant locks of hair as white as his, had never really seen him again.

The other clung to him now.

"I thought I'd lost you," she repeated into his hair, breathless and shaking softly.

And he parted his lips to respond — and paused when the only answer that came to him was quiet, morose, weak. 'I think I lost me, too'.

Perhaps it would be fitting.

Perhaps it would be real.

But it wouldn't be fair, and wouldn't help, and he resigned himself to his most buried desire: to go back to days where he'd not seen such tragedy strike twice.

"I'm sorry," he murmured instead. "I'm so, so sorry."

This, too, was the truth.

Shirou let himself wallow in the comfort and warmth, even after Anastasia arrived a minute or two later and in the company of two others. When they all walked away, a few moments later, the dead all watched in silent amusement.

When Samiya told Anastasia that she would take Shirou to her apartment, after the boy had given the Exorcists his rundown of everything that had transpired, the older woman had not complained.

She had taken a single look at the room, had taken a single look at Shirou's body — one barely into puberty, with a face still a bit rounded and with eyes wide from shock, all of that partially drenched by blood— and then nodded.

For that, Samiya was grateful.

She knew, logically, that she could trust Anastasia this time.

For all that the woman had something of a 'general during wartime' mentality, not even she would look at this scene and see anything other than complete and total horror. Anastasia, the Exorcist, may have complained — but the sight of a boy not yet 15 covered from head to toe in blood and the pile of carnage behind him was enough to bring Anastasia, the Grandmother, into the forefront.

Tomorrow, she knew, or perhaps on the day after, Anastasia would come knocking to take the boy back home.

For tonight, however, Samiya had her way.

She'd taken Shirou's hand in her own and led the silent boy through the dark streets and to her parked motorcycle after handing him a jacket to hide all the blood, praying all the way that they wouldn't stumble into anyone.

Thankfully, they didn't.

In a matter of a few minutes, the two were in Samiya's humble apartment and, as Shirou stepped inside to go take a shower, she closed the door behind him and furrowed her brows softly.

Samiya's apartment was a small one; a kitchen, a bedroom, a living room and a bathroom. Nothing too impressive, but it did its job while she lived alone and was about to get into college. She turned on the lights, walked to her room, and sighed.

That night had been, far and away, one of the worst in her life.

Here's the thing.

Samiya had always — always — been against Shirou's radical induction into the Church. There hadn't been a day where she'd not cursed the reveal of Shirou's odd Sacred Gear to them when the Stray had attacked.

It didn't matter that he could fight for the Church. She knew that. She wasn't doubting her brother's capabilities. It didn't matter what he could do. What mattered is what he should do — and throw his life away for a war he had no stakes in was not it.

And now, her concern had proven correct.

And now, she thought, things have reached their logical extreme.

The only way she could think that the night could've gone worse was if Shirou had died or been crippled on top of everything else. Digging through her closet to look for something the boy could wear, she continued to muse on the ironic horror of their situation.

Out of all the children Samiya had been 'family' within the orphanage — children she still visited now and then — Kōsetsu was, of course, the one she was closest to, and by far. Shirou was different from the other kids in the orphanage. Their bond was different.

Eventually, something would go wrong. It always did. And then she'd lose what little family she had left in that world.

That was her brother.

Someone she'd been responsible for, and had cared for, and listened to, and worried about, for all her life.

That was her little brother the Church was sending out to die. All because he had a gift from God. Some gift; if their God was one that chose children as soldiers to die in his proxy war, she'd been right to refuse him.

Samiya sighed, picking out a plain white shirt and some shorts from her closet.

They'd be a little big on the boy, but not much. As the sound of the shower being turned on and the water starting to run echoes softly through her otherwise silent apartment, she walked from her bedroom to the bathroom and left the folded clothes in front of the door.

Silently, she stepped away and walked to the kitchen to see what snacks she could offer the boy. Of course, with it being that late at night, the girl made sure to keep her steps quiet — and then, she stopped.

Knowing him, Samiya realized, he'd likely prefer to raid her 'pantry' and cook them both something — he'd always liked to cook when he was stressed.

Well, whatever. Shirou's cooking was always legendary, anyway. If it helped him, he could have whatever he wanted from her pantry. It may mess up her budget — in the end, Samiya was both a broke orphan and a soon-to-be broke college student, and thus had to ration her money wisely — if he used too much in one meal, but it would be worth it in the end.

If it made him feel better, it would be worth it.

But that also meant she had little to do, now. Which meant she had little ways to distract herself from the idea that had been growing in the depths of her mind from the moment she stepped into that horrible room.

— No. Sooner. Years sooner.

Inahomi Samiya walked up to the kitchen table and pulled herself a chair, sitting down in it and pulling out her phone from her pocket. Silently, she turned on the screen with the press of a button, her eyes once again wandering to the unread message notification she'd never really had the heart to clear away.

She'd never needed to, either.

For as much as she thought the Church's stigma against magic was dumb, Samiya Inahomi had indeed made the choice to move away from such things, for herself if nothing else. When shit went down and she was almost executed, she'd taken the offer she'd been given and did her best to abide by the rules set.

Of course she'd missed magic all those years. Of course she'd done a few tricks here and there, hidden away. Magic was beautiful. It was a spark of reality you learned to wield with your mind alone. It was a little shard of control over what was real and what was not, understanding of the world given physical form and taking a name.

There was not a single day where she didn't miss it.

But, as a whole, she'd known she'd done the right thing to step away from it all. She'd wanted to have a life free from such things; free from grief, from persecution, from facing death at every corner.

Free from the war.

And then, tonight, however, she'd learned something —

For as long as the Church had Shirou in their grasp, she would never be free.

Because, at the end of the day, Inahomi Samiya was an older sister.

She would much rather die than leave her innocent brother to die at some asshat's behest.

The girl's heart clicked into place as she opened the message application, scrolling down to the very last chat. Like always, the last message greeted her: "If you ever need anything, we will be waiting." Usually, she just ignored it.

Tonight, however, she tapped a finger on it quickly.

Shirou was taking a shower. He'd take a while to get the — the blood cleaned off. She had a bit of time.

She would need it. At that moment, partially shrouded by the shadows cast by a small apartment, with bloodied footsteps marking her floor and the sleeves of her own shirt tinted red from holding her brother's hand, Samiya made a choice.

And she typed in, "Can we talk?"

A pause — or so she expected. In truth, the reply came almost instantly.

"Took you long enough. Of course we can, Sami." Mephisto Pheles, chairman of the Grauzauberer, replied instantly. "Where and when may we meet?"

Shirou spent two days at Samiya's place before he was inevitably taken back to the Orphanage.

He felt almost numb about it, really.

Anastasia had been adamant at keeping him in the Orphanage, but she'd taken to avoiding him some. They would still train daily, and on those training sessions she would be far more merciless than usual, but come time for it to end, the Exorcist would walk away and leave him to his thoughts.

— Fitting.

But, in the end, neither Samiya or Anastasia got to keep Shirou for the rest of the week —

Just two days after his return, and on the very day they heard about the cover-up story the Church had come up with, the one about Shirou stumbling into Fukushima-san's body near the church when heading back home, Issei's parents had showed up at the Orphanage doorstep and offered to take him in for a few days..

A sleepover, they called it.

Shirou had said yes almost immediately, and Anastasia hadn't had the heart or a good enough excuse to stop him from taking the time to cool off in the company of a friend. He'd looked up at the older woman with wide eyes when the question was asked and, despite their recent distance, she had acquiesced.

A successful weaponizing of guilt, as it were.

— For once, Shirou felt his age.

It was… strange, but not unpleasant. Despite everything else, he still felt happy at the thought of spending some time with his friend. Even if the boy was a pervert. Plus, the atmosphere in the orphanage was hellish.

Granted, it was all a bit sudden… but then he recalled that the Hyōdō family didn't really know that he was close to the people at the orphanage, and likely assumed he was only there because no one had fostered him. He'd only told Issei enough for the boy to know about Samiya, after all.

It made sense, them, for them to assume that he'd not have support at home.

At the end of the day, even though they were all weird in their own ways, Shirou had come to appreciate how kind and compassionate Issei's family could be.

But, really, what he appreciated the most was Issei himself — because, at the end of the day, Hyōdō Issei was the very picture of awkwardness when it came to sensitive moments.

It had taken him exactly three hours of somewhat tense hours of playing games at his house before the hazelnut-haired boy had turned to Shirou, taken in a deep breath, bowed his head and screamed —

"I'm very sorry for your loss and shit luck!"

They'd been playing Street Fighter. Honestly, Shirou wasn't too big a fan of videogames — but, when staying with Issei, they were fun. It was a fun way to connect with his friend, he'd found, and even Shirou himself wasn't immune to some light-hearted competitiveness here and there.

Until that point, the air had been thick with the unasked questions. He'd been expecting something the whole day. And, honestly, it was only fair. Shirou had been feeling… vacant. Like his mind was only half-there. Every once in a while, when he blinked, he could see the room clearly.

Sometimes.

And sometimes he would see a fire even worse.

So, of course they'd noticed. And, of course, they'd eventually ask about it. He'd been expecting so from the moment he stepped into their house.

That, however, had not been it. He had most definitely not been ready for that.

The sheer absurdity of the statement made Shirou completely lose his composure. Despite himself, and despite the horrible tragedy, Shirou snorted loudly, covering his mouth to try not to chuckle.

Issei flushed a deep red. He always defaulted to anger when embarrassed — as soon as the self-proclaimed Harem King noticed Shirou's mirth, the boy whipped a finger forward to point at him and, with a scowl, questioned him:

"Hey — what the hell are you laughing at?! I'm — I'm trying to be considerate, here!"

Shirou had to swallow the urge to snort once again.

"I'm sorry for your shit luck," he parroted faithfully, and delighted in Issei's squeak of shame. The small, red-tinted part of him that was bitter, cynical and sarcastic welled up in joy. "That's how you put it, right?"

His friend crossed his arms over his chest, a comically sour scowl on his face of sharp features as he made a show of looking away. Still, the tension in the air had been shattered, and they were both all the better for it.

Finally, Issei scoffed.

"Bah!" He made a noise of disgust. "Shows what I get for trying to be nice."

But then, he paused.

The two were sitting on the floor together, playing games on the TV in Issei's room — the game had been paused by Issei when his proclamation was made, which also served to save the Hyōdō from a rather smashing defeat. Still, the boy sighed, losing some of his edge.

And then Issei spoke again.

"Really," he said, his voice softer this time. He still sounded really awkward. "If you need to talk about it or anything…"

And Shirou looked at his friend for a few moments, silently awed, and —

Well.

He'd been right, back then. Back when he'd first met Hyōdō Issei, Shirou had thought to himself that, underneath all the bravado and perversion, the boy was actually rather nice. Knowing Issei, who tries to avoid any mushy conversations like his life depended on it, and who was more insecure than met the eye, such an offer took effort to make.

And Shirou's mind flashed back to Samiya, who had been nothing but kind to him.

On the day after he'd arrived, the girl had insisted on spending the day doing sweet nothings or watching movies, just to get his mind off of things. When he'd gone off to cook and clean, like he sometimes did, she'd said nothing, understanding that he needed the time to clear his head. And afterwards, she'd told him to sit with her and had taken to reading in silence.

The climate at the Orphanage was more awkward.

Some of the children had been informed of what happened and thus flocked to him, trying to offer him comfort; they'd crowded over him and smothered him with hugs and expressions of concern that he couldn't help but appreciate. Even Anastasia, who had suddenly become somewhat distant, had taken the time to walk with him to the Buddhist temple nearby, that he may practice Kyūdo in some peace.

And now, this — Issei, too, was doing his best. At the end of the day, Hyōdō Issei was his best friend, and the boy was damn well acting the part.

Shirou really had surrounded himself with wonderful people.

So he softly beamed at his friend, nodding his head just once.

"I know," he replied, more confidently this time. "And I appreciate it."

"Yeah," Issei murmured, "Cool. So… I know this sounds dumb, but I have to ask — are you okay?"

And he stopped, and pondered, and thought.

And he remembered piles of bodies discarded like trash. A familiar face losing its light while another grinned at him with intent to kill. A heart ripped out. A neck cleanly cut through. A silent plea for help —

And the overwhelming smell of blood.

All of that was with him still, even after scrubbing his skin raw during each shower.

Was he okay?

No. No, he wasn't. Thankfully, he wasn't. He had seen something horrible — and, more than that, had failed to save a life. He'd seen people, victims, who'd been just like Issei before they were violently taken away from their life.

It tasted sour, bitter and wrong. And he hated it.

Hated the war that brought it about.

And even thinking about that day made him see it clearly.

So, no, he wasn't okay. But these weren't Shirou's first ghosts. Those weren't the first images of horror stuck to his mind. Be it flame, snow or concrete — Shirou, Kōsetsu or Emiya, had seen hell before. Each time was as horrible as the last.

And he'd lived through them regardless.

He just had to do better. To work harder. To think more. Somewhere out there, there was surely a way to save the innocent people caught in the crossfire of a thousand-year old war with no winners.

Not because he was a Hero of Justice. He'd given up on that a long time ago, back when he made the choice to value (her). It wasn't about being a hero.

It was just about doing the right thing.

— A world where no one has to cry anymore.

"No, I'm not. Okay, I mean." He admitted easily. It felt freeing. "But I think I will be, given time."

Only then did Issei relax. The boy sighed.

"Bah! Fine, then." Was his reply. Though he made a point of sounding dramatic and irritated, he had an expression of relief upon his face. "Now, to get back to wrecking your face in Street Fighter…"

By the end of the day, Shirou had won 31 matches and lost 2.

Shirou had faced many, many challenges throughout his days. His daily training with Anastasia could be succinctly called hellish, and then there were the actual fights he'd gotten involved in. He was no stranger to strife.

This, though …

This was something else.

Issei's two friends, Motohama and Matsuda, were morons. And he did absolutely not mean that kindly. It usually took a lot of effort to make Shirou dislike someone, but those two had accomplished so almost immediately.

Of course, he was trying to keep a level head about it.

Issei was perverted to the point of being stupid about it. Those two were perverted to the point of being criminals. It wasn't even funny.

"WHAT?!" Motohama, the one with the more defined muscles, slammed a hand on the table while Issei facepalmed in the background, clearly flustered. In the past, Shirou had noticed that the boy avoided talking about his other friends. He now knew why. "How can you not be interested in the glory that are —"

He sighed. Already he felt a nursing headache growing in his temple.

"I swear," he cut in, voice cold. "If you complete that sentence with the word 'breasts', I will burn all of your pornography."

He stopped, eyes wide. The other two, who had been in something of a hushed conversation until Issei started to die of secondhand embarrassment from Motohama's antics, had the gall to flinch at his words — really, Shirou found himself forced to reconsider his approach towards Issei's perversion.

If he behaved like this around normal people, the two of them were going to have a talk.

Still shook by his cold threat, Motohama struggled to compose an answer — until Issei, getting up, pulled the boy rather forcefully by his shirt and made him tumble back. Shirou watched that, too, finding himself raising an eyebrow as the two started to talk in heated murmurs.

Meanwhile, Matsuda, the self-proclaimed 'Three Sizes Scouter', approached him.

The two boys had showed up unannounced at the Hyōdō family's house, asking for Issei. The boy's parents, wanting to make sure they all had fun even though they clearly disliked the two, sent them up to Issei's room to meet with him and Shirou.

Their entrance had interrupted Issei's halfhearted attempt to teach Shirou how to play Yu-Gi-Oh, for which the auburn-haired youth was more than thankful for. Card games really weren't his thing, honestly.

Though they may have been preferable to the loud rant about breasts that followed.

And now he turned his eyes to the bespectacled boy with the dark hair, looking distinctly unimpressive.

"So," Matsuda muttered, "Issei told me you like Naruto…"

Ah.

Nevermind.

There may be hope for him yet.

A.N:

First and foremost, and I feel like pointing this out because of some comments — This is not Yaoi, I promise. I don't want to pair Shirou and Issei. They're just friends.

I'd have thought that was obvious, but judging by the concern some of you have expressed, I have arrived at the conclusion it wasn't.

I have also concluded that y'all need better friends, Jesus Christ.

As a sidenote on that, The Perverted Trio ™ and their hijinks do make me a bit uncomfortable, as a concept. However, they're always treated as a gag in the show. I think that's important; I've seen a lot of fics portray the three as horrible people, but the entirety of DxD is humorous, gag-like and perverted. They're not outliers.

If you change the tone of the show, you should probably change them, too.

So, in my view, they're alright. They're horribly perverted and don't really know how to treat others, but I've the feeling that's also somewhat due to the fact that they're pretty much outcasts. Spending time only with people who share your opinions or with people who hate you for them will make them more extreme.

At the end of the day, they're all just silly dumb teenagers being horny. It's stupid, but eh.

For now, however, we approach the great line you're all waiting for.

With this, we slowly get closer to canon territory. Only a year from now, in the VNs, Hyōdō Issei would start falling down the metaphysical chain of events that became what we know as Highschool DxD.

Instead, we get this.

A tale of many parts.

A much darker tale, too, in some ways; reality really is in the eye of the beholder, after all. And here, we gaze at it through the eyes of molten gold.

This story will only grow from here on out. It is my most sincere hope that I will continue to see you all as we go down this spiralling road.

One must emphasize that certain liberties were taken with the source material of Highschool DxD. I have tried, and am trying, to stick to canon as much as I possibly can… but there is much that was never truly explained in any depth.

Magic, as performed by humans, is one such thing. Thus, I have extrapolated. You'll see more of that as time goes on.

Last chapter's reception was mixed, but somewhat positive. Most of you seemed to enjoy it, which makes me happy. Let us hope you enjoy this, too.

Also, on the matter of timing, I have McFricking told you. I promise I won't take ten years this time.

As a little celebration for having, with the updates made to chapters I and II and now this chapter X, reached over 50k words and 500 comments, I'd also like to take the time to thank you all. The first few who ask questions may get replies, maybe.

As usual, this has been Lily, and I'll see you around.