"Absolutely not!" Tuka's voice cut through the din of the camp, sharp as a cracked whip. Her arms were crossed tightly over her chest, her knuckles pale against the dimming light. Despite her comparatively petite frame, she stood as immovable, glaring daggers at Shirou.
Lelei, by contrast, sat cross-legged on a crate, chin perched on her fist, her gaze faraway. She seemed to be contemplating Shirou's words more than reacting to them. The glint in her eye, however, hinted at the gears in her mind grinding furiously.
Shirou sighed, running a hand through his hair. He hadn't even finished explaining everything, and Tuka was already ready to riot. "Tuka, listen-"
"Lord Emiya, I respect you." Tuka held up a hand to stop him in his tracks, "I truly do, but you cannot expect me to help people like them!" Tuka's voice cracked, though her glare remained unyielding.
"You were fine with doing it in Italica, were you not?" Shirou tried, though he immediately regretted the words as soon as they left his mouth.
Tuka's eyes flared with indignation, her arms dropping to her sides as her fists clenched tightly. "That was different!" she snapped, stepping forward. "In Italica, we weren't helping them! We were protecting people who couldn't protect themselves, not propping up slavers and their Empire!"
Shirou stood firm, though the frustration in his voice began to seep through. "And you think that's what I'm asking us to do here? To 'prop up slavers'? I'm not blind to what they've done, Tuka. But if we just walk away, wouldn't that make us no better?"
"No better?" Tuka's voice quivered, somewhere between incredulity and fury. Her hand shot out, pointing toward the smoke-streaked skyline of the capital. "How can you even say that, Lord Emiya? These people - the Empire itself - they've built their world on chains and suffering. Turning our backs doesn't make us like them; it makes us human enough to know when something isn't worth saving!"
Shirou's jaw tightened, the tension in his posture betraying the calm he was trying to maintain. "You think I don't know what they've done? What they're still doing?" His voice was low, carrying an edge of barely restrained heat. "Every part of me wants to take those chains and break them apart. But this isn't about them. This is about the people caught in the middle. The ones who didn't choose any of this but are still paying the price."
"And they'd be paying the price if we just don't get involved!"
Tuka's voice rose, sharp and unyielding, her words like stones striking flint. "Lord Emiya, you think we're saviors swooping in to fix everything, but we're not! The Empire's rot runs deeper than you can imagine. Helping them, even indirectly, makes us complicit. Do you not see that?"
Shirou opened his mouth to respond but stopped. A familiar weight pressed against his chest, invisible yet suffocating, a phantom sensation he knew all too well. The argument in front of him faded for a moment, drowned in the roar of his own thoughts.
She's not wrong.
The admission was bitter, sharp as glass against his mind. Tuka's words weren't just anger; they were truth. Every act of kindness to someone undeserving, every moment he chose to help rather than condemn, came with the risk of enabling something far worse. He could still remember the faces of those who had begged for his aid only to later reveal their lies, their greed. Those who wielded his efforts like weapons against others.
He remembered not just his own acts, but the acts that Archer had experienced, done in the name of the preservation of humanity. The bitterness that accompanied their duel so long ago. The self-hate from the compromises that Shirou Emiya had to undertake, in order to become a Hero of Justice.
And yet, wasn't that the reason he refused to turn away?
His memories drifted unbidden to Kiritsugu, to the ideal he had sworn to carry like a torch through the darkness. A hero saves everyone. The words rang hollow now, mocked by every compromise he had made, every time he'd chosen the lesser evil while pretending it wasn't still evil. But if he abandoned that ideal, what was left? A man who stood by and let the world burn because the flames were inconvenient to extinguish?
I'm not Kiritsugu. Even now, I don't have the strength to choose who lives and who dies. But if I don't act, if I let my fear of failure stop me, am I even trying?
Shirou's thoughts churned, chaotic and relentless. Tuka's words stung, not because they were cruel, but because they weren't wrong. The Empire was rotten, a machine built on cruelty, grinding countless innocents into the dust. Helping them, even indirectly, meant risking complicity in their atrocities. How many lives had the Empire destroyed? How many futures had it stolen? And yet, here he stood, asking Tuka to set aside her anger and join him in extending a hand. Was it arrogance? Or something worse?
It's not about them, he told himself, the phrase like a mantra against the doubt creeping in. It wasn't about the Empire or its rulers. They could burn for all he cared. But the people—those faceless, voiceless masses caught beneath the boots of the powerful—what about them? What choice did they have? To him, they were more than collateral damage in someone else's war. They were the ones he had sworn to protect, the ones who needed him most.
And yet, doubt whispered its cruel insinuations. Was that vow worth anything if he couldn't back it up with results? Was it justice to act, even if it risked making things worse in the long run? He thought of Archer again, his cold eyes, his bitter words.
Is this what you call saving people? Trading one set of victims for another?
Because that would be the case, wouldn't it? Tuka was as much a victim of the Empire as the people of the Empire were of the consequences of their actions. Could he really, truly ask her to do this?
The answer was simple.
No.
After all, it wasn't about asking. Shirou realized. It was about doing. He didn't have the luxury of doubt anymore. There would never be a perfect answer. No clean, safe choice. But the world didn't wait for perfection. It bled, it screamed, it suffocated. And in the end, he would either be a part of that scream—or he wouldn't.
He looked at Tuka, her defiance as sharp as the night wind. He saw the truth in her eyes, the raw pain of a woman who had been crushed by the weight of too many injustices. And yet, beneath that fury, he could sense the same thing that drove him - the same struggle, the same desperate hope that maybe, just maybe, there was a way to make things right.
"Complicity…" Shirou spoke quietly, almost to himself, feeling the heaviness of the word settle like dust in the air between them. "You're right. Every action, every choice has consequences. And some of those consequences will never be easy to bear. But doing nothing doesn't change that. It just lets the suffering continue."
The elf's mouth opened, ready to fire back, but Shirou raised a hand, not to silence her, but to steady his own thoughts. "I can't promise this will end well. I can't promise we'll fix everything. But if we just walk away, then we're already part of the problem. And I refuse to stand by while people suffer, simply because their suffering's been going on too long."
Tuka's glare softened, just a fraction. There was no surrender in it, but the tension in her shoulders loosened. Her fists unclenched, but she didn't lower her gaze. Instead, she met his eyes, still filled with the fire of a woman who had seen too much, but now tempered with something else. The tiniest flicker of understanding.
"You can't save everyone, Lord Emiya," Tuka muttered, her voice quieter, but no less firm. "And if you try, you'll burn yourself out."
Shirou nodded, the weight of her words sinking in. He had always known this truth, but hearing it from her, from someone who had lived it, gave it a weight he couldn't ignore.
You can't save everyone.
The same words Archer tried to hammer into him, to stop him from going down the path that the Servant went down.
But still, he stood by his decision. He might burn. He might break. But he wouldn't watch the world burn alone. Above all else, Shirou could confidently say one thing.
It wasn't wrong.
…
The soft beeps of a heartbeat monitor. The stale air of a sterilized environment. The soft breathing from the woman in the bed.
A familiar sight after a while.
"Sakura, I'm back."
There was no response. Rin didn't expect to get one.
Her sister had been in a coma ever since Shirou had gotten her out of Zouken's paws, and had yet to wake up. Nothing that Rin had tried, magical or mundane, had managed to rouse her. Not even the favors that she cashed in were able to do anything. She'd even swallowed her pride and asked Zelretch for his help, only for the Magician to outright refuse, saying that waking her up forcefully would risk Sakura's health.
She stopped asking after he said that.
The hospital room felt frozen in time, as if the air itself refused to stir too much in deference to the fragile figure lying beneath crisp, white sheets. Sakura's face was pale, peaceful in its stillness, but Rin knew better than to trust that illusion.
Rin placed the small bouquet of lilies on the bedside table, their fragrance a faint, sweet contrast to the antiseptic sterility of the room. She sank into the chair beside the bed, folding her hands in her lap, her usual poise replaced with something smaller, quieter. Her fingers curled and uncurled as if seeking something solid to hold on to, but there was nothing except the persistent ache of waiting.
"You know," Rin began, her voice laced with a brittle edge, "I think Shirou's forgotten how to write. Or maybe he's allergic to paperwork now." She sat back in her chair, arms crossed, her tone somewhere between annoyance and sarcasm. "Not that I'm surprised. It's Shirou, after all."
Her gaze flicked to Sakura's pale, peaceful face, as if expecting her sister to agree, or at least give some sign that she was listening. But there was only the quiet rhythm of the machines, indifferent to Rin's frustration.
The lilies on the bedside table swayed slightly in the air-conditioned breeze, their fragrance faint but persistent. Rin's eyes narrowed at them, her lips pressing into a thin line. "He probably thinks he's too busy saving the world to bother keeping me updated. But you and I both know better, don't we? He's just avoiding it. Typical blockhead. Running headlong into danger without a thought for the fallout."
She sat back, arms uncrossing to gesture broadly at the room, her voice rising slightly. "He knows I hate being left in the dark, but does that stop him? Of course not! I wouldn't even be surprised if he's lost track of time entirely. Or worse, he's deliberately ignoring it because he knows I'll rip into him if the situation's worse than he's letting on."
Rin turned her gaze back to Sakura, studying her sister's face with a tenderness that belied her simmering irritation. "You'd be mad at him too, wouldn't you?" She murmured. "I mean, he hasn't even bothered to visit you. Not once. How hard would it be to stop by and see you for just five minutes? But no. He's too busy trying to save everyone else to even think about the people waiting for him here."
She sighed, resting her chin in her hand, her other fingers idly tracing the armrest of the chair. The hospital room's hum seemed to grow louder in the silence, like a living reminder of the monotony that had come to define her visits here.
"But that's Shirou, isn't it?" A fond, exasperated smile wormed itself onto her face.
"...e…s…"
Rin froze, her breath hitching in her throat as the faint, broken sound reached her ears. For a moment, she thought it was a trick of her mind, an echo of hope born from the endless silence. But then, there it was again, soft as a sigh.
"Ne…e…ch…an…"
Her heart leapt, pounding wildly in her chest. She leaned forward, gripping Sakura's hand tightly, her own trembling with a mixture of joy and fear. "Sakura?" Rin's voice was barely steady, her words laced with disbelief. "Sakura, I'm here. I'm right here. Can you hear me?"
Sakura's lips moved faintly, and her eyelids fluttered, slow and unsteady, as though each motion was a monumental effort. Finally, they opened just a fraction, revealing a sliver of violet that shimmered dimly in the harsh light of the room. Her gaze was unfocused, hazy, but it sought Rin's face as if it were the only anchor in an otherwise distant and ungraspable world.
"Nee…chan…" Sakura's voice was weak, barely more than a whisper, but it carried the weight of a thousand unspoken emotions. Her lips curved into the faintest, most fragile of smiles, a flicker of light in the otherwise endless stillness that had held her captive.
Rin couldn't stop the tears streaming down her face, hot and unchecked. "I'm here, Sakura. It's me. You're safe now," she whispered, her voice breaking as she clasped Sakura's hand tighter, as though she could tether her sister to the moment through sheer willpower alone. "Don't push yourself, okay? Just rest. You're going to be fine."
Sakura's gaze lingered for a fleeting moment, her lips parting as if to speak again. But the strength that had brought her back faltered, and her eyelids began to droop. Her smile faded, and her hand slackened in Rin's grip as her body yielded once more to the pull of unconsciousness.
"No, no, no…" Rin's voice was barely audible, trembling with desperation as she shook her sister gently. "Sakura, please. Don't go back. Stay with me. Please, Sakura."
It was no use. The spark of life that had flickered so briefly was gone again, leaving only the quiet rhythm of the monitors and the slow rise and fall of Sakura's chest. Her face was peaceful, serene, but distant, untouchable, as though the moment had been nothing more than a dream.
Rin slumped back into the chair, her hands covering her face as the sobs broke free, her body trembling with the force of emotions she could no longer hold back. "You were there…" she choked out, her voice cracking. "You were right there, Sakura…"
She wiped at her tears hastily, though they kept coming, her gaze fixed on Sakura's still form. She leaned forward once more, brushing a lock of hair from Sakura's forehead, her fingers trembling but tender. "I'll wait, Sakura." She murmured, her voice steady now, quiet but resolute. "As long as it takes, I'll wait. I promise."
A different promise from the one she should have made a long time ago, to protect her sister at all costs.
The room returned to its silence, broken only by the gentle hum of machines, but Rin's heart was loud with the certainty that her sister was still fighting. Somewhere, deep inside, Sakura was still there, reaching out. And Rin would be there when she reached her hand back.
…
A/N: If you like what I do and want to support me, check out my P-atreon at P-atreon•com(slash)Almistyor.
And a special thanks to: FireRogueWolf25, brutalcrab and Tassimo.