(A/N)Will be updated sporadically, with possible weeks to months between chapters. Much work, little sleep.
The city burned around her, smoke thick in the air, choking her lungs. Concrete melted into rivers of slag. Metal screamed as it twisted in the heat. Flesh turned to ash carried off by the wind.
In the distance, beyond the inferno, a tower loomed—an obsidian wound in the sky, bleeding cursed mud over the dying world below.
This was Hell.
…But whose Hell was this?
She didn't know where to run, only that she had to. If she kept running, she could escape. At some point, the Hell had to end, right?
A man screamed, his body pinned beneath rubble. A woman begged for a child already lost. Familiar hands clenched into fists, but she kept running.
Again and again, she ran until she could run no longer. Exhaustion seeped into her limbs, dragging her down. But stopping meant death, so she forced herself forward. She walked.
So, she walked.
It didn't matter. The scene never changed.
Red. Corpses. The last, fading whimpers of the dying.
Each step demanded a piece of her heart, a price to continue forward. Eventually, she had nothing left to give. Only her body remained.
She collapsed.
No—that wasn't right. The world was out of focus, blurry at the edges, but she knew the truth. She hadn't fallen from exhaustion. Her shoes had melted into her ankles, her legs blistered from top to bottom.
So, she laid there until the smoke began to clear and the clouds began to gather. As all the screams died out and only the crackling of fire upon wood was left. The flames curled around her, crept over her body, burned into her chest—but she did not move. She stared at the sky.
Soon, it would rain. The fire would be put out, though not in time.
But she was not scared, nor did she panic. Everyone else around her had died the same way, after all. Helpless.
She would not be saved. No one had been saved.
Miracles existed. She knew this. But was it not already a wonder that she had survived this far?
The charred corpses around told her enough.
"It hurts," she whispered. The words weren't for herself. They were for the ones who never had the chance to say them. She reached for the sky, only now realizing just how far away the clouds were.
Her mind drifted. Her breaths slowed.
Slowly, her hand fe—
A hand caught hers.
The sky disappeared, replaced by the face of a man staring down at her. Tears welled in his eyes, his mouth moving—saying something she couldn't quite hear.
But his smile was unmistakable.
A joy so raw, so genuine, that for a moment, she forgot the death she had seen. And then, the man began to thank her, as if he had been the one saved, not her.
Could she ever smile like that?
And just like that, she wished to live. Her fingers tightened around his, clinging to the warmth in his grasp. The mind that had nearly faded was now full of joy at being saved.
A golden light appeared from within the man and disappeared just as quickly. But she felt it. She could still smell it—a fragrance of gardens and nature, something pure and untouched becoming one with her.
Darkness crept at the edges of her vision, and she let it take her.
Unafraid, for the light remained—where her heart had once been.
Artoria Pendragon awakened with a sharp gasp.
The scent of smoke clung to her lungs, even though there was none, and her fingers ached as if burned. She withdrew from the covers of her bed and reached for the lights. They flickered on, illuminating her spartan room. She made her way to the small, attached bathroom and splashed cold water on her face.
That dream again, she mused as she stared at her reflection in the mirror, droplets trailing down her skin. It was a dream she had borne witness to many times before, and each one left her haggard in response. Though, rather than dreams, she supposed it was more akin to the memories of a person she once knew.
Time, though, had taken its toll over the countless years of fighting and the memories had become hazy. Would she one day forget the name of the person she left that day? Already, she had forgotten his voice and face. It was a question that had haunted her for a long time, one she would never know the answer to until it happened.
Yet despite that, this dream was the most vivid recollection she had experienced in a long time. The details, the emotions—they felt too sharp to be mere echoes of the past. She could no longer compare them to the original memory with certainty, but even so, it didn't feel wrong to say they were the same.
Perhaps, she thought, this is just an effect of seeing Fuyuki once more in the simulator. To say she was surprised that Chaldea's first singularity was set in a city she once held dear would be an understatement. She had been summoned shortly before Chaldea embarked on the Second Singularity, meaning she never saw Singularity F firsthand—only heard of it from other Servants and her Master. But no secondhand account could have prepared her for the sight of the melting city during a scavenging mission.
Artoria exhaled, drying her face before stepping out into the white, sterile halls of Chaldea. It would do no good to ruminate upon the past. Yes, she still had many regrets that would never leave her. Some wounds could not be healed. And yet, she had recently reached a point where she understood the words once spoken to her by someone who had seen through her burdens—words she had dismissed for far too long.
I'm proud of what I have accomplished. So, even if it hurts to remember, I will accept my failures and continue to fulfill my duties. Thank you, Shirou.
A soft smile ghosted her lips as she continued onward, never once looking back.
Across the building, a man in red frowned as he stared down at his hands.
EMIYA rarely slept. Servants had little need for it—remaining in spirit form was a far more efficient way to conserve magical energy. Still, there were downsides to existing as a wraith. Idleness bred boredom, and boredom was something even he wasn't immune to.
Most Servants requested personal rooms, preferring the illusion of normalcy. EMIYA was not one of them. He drifted from place to place, materializing only when needed. But last night he had sought to clear his mind, and so he had taken up residence in the communal workshop.
Servants did not dream, though he could imagine a few exceptions to that rule. Instead, sleep for a Servant was more akin to putting a film over reality, where time passed by faster and little thoughts were had. So, when he had dreamed of a sword encased in stone and a hill of corpses, it had come as an annoying surprise.
The Memory Cycle was an interesting phenomenon between Master and Servant. As their connection deepened, they would begin to experience fragments of each other's pasts while they slept. He wasn't unfamiliar with the Memory Cycle, but it required a close bond to happen.
That was what made this situation so perplexing.
His Master wasn't someone he was particularly close to. There was no hostility between them, but there was no friendship either. He had been summoned to Chaldea after the Third Singularity, long after the existing social order had settled. He had no interest in forcing himself into those groups—especially not the ones orbiting his Master. The only place he found any semblance of camaraderie was in the kitchen, among the few who appreciated silence while they worked.
Needless to say, the Memory Cycle should not be occurring. Especially since he hasn't even shared his true name with his Master, choosing instead to go by Mumei—admittedly a hastily-made decision, but far better than hearing his real name thrown around casually. And yet, despite all logic, he had seen a memory.
If that were the only issue, he could have brushed it off as an anomaly. An inconvenience, nothing more. But the memories he had witnessed didn't belong to his Master. Worse, he knew exactly whose past he had glimpsed.
Time had dulled the details, blurred the edges of his recollection. But even after all these years, there were things he could never forget. The moment in time remained untouched.
The king who never looked back.
The girl who bore the weight of a nation on her shoulders.
Her voice—soft yet unyielding—as she carried that burden and suffered the consequences.
Time has stopped. The scene lasts less than a second. But… I'm sure I'll remember this scene vividly even when I've gone to hell.
The face slightly turned.
The quiet green eyes.
The instant becomes an eternity.
The blue outfit symbolizing her sways in the wind.
A faint blue light filters in. The golden hair shines in the moonlight.
A memory that haunted him for an eternity, one he wished he could forget. And yet, in moments of peace, when his mind wandered and eyes closed, her face would always return. A way of life, that despite everything, possessed a beauty that he could not deny. The first person he had ever failed to save since promising to become a Hero.
The King of Knights. Artoria Pendragon.
EMIYA knew she was in Chaldea, though he wasn't quite sure when she was summoned beyond the fact that it was before himself. More often than not, he saw her in the cafeteria, tearing through food supplies alongside her cohort of knights and newfound friends. He had spent more time trying to keep up with her gluttony as a chef than engaging with her directly. Beyond that, he had little interaction with her and knew next to nothing about her current circumstances.
Was she still hoping to undo the selection? Why was she even in Chaldea in the first place when there were no spare Grails to wish upon? If this was an Artoria that had already made peace with herself, then should she not be in Avalon, or had the World interfered?
Fortunately, he had seen no indication that she intended to make a wish upon the Holy Grail—though that was an observation made from a distance. From what he could tell, she seemed content in her role within Chaldea, if not genuinely happy. Many of her knights were slipping into old habits, but others were trying to make up for past mistakes, seeking to bridge the isolation that once surrounded their king. Even her newfound friends had started to scold her recklessness.
EMIYA saw no reason to interfere. If she had found happiness, then it wasn't his place to disrupt it. Of course, if the people around her ever gave up on reigning in her stubbornness—an impossible task, though that wasn't the point—then he might have to step in. Push some buttons.
He'd rather avoid that, though.
The very few interactions he had with the Pendragon had already made one thing clear—she didn't like him. The distaste had been immediate, impossible to miss when he first introduced himself.
Had she encountered him in a previous summoning? Had he left a bad impression? Or was his nature appalling to her senses?
He didn't know. He didn't particularly care.
Whether she hated him or not was irrelevant. But a negative relationship could interfere with future operations. Her dislike was passive, for now, but if he involved himself too much, it could easily become active. And that was a situation he had no interest in dealing with again.
But avoiding it wasn't an option anymore. Because if he was experiencing the Memory Cycle, then it was obvious she would be receiving his memories as well. If he was lucky, this Artoria came from a timeline where she had never met Shirou Emiya. In that case, this whole situation could be dismissed as a strange but meaningless occurrence. But if she wasn't from such a timeline, then it was only a matter of time before she recognized the memories.
The false identity Mumei would obscure him—for now.
Eventually, though, she would realize the truth.
And when that happened, she would have questions.
Questions he had no good answers for.