Chapter 16

It was an odd sort of feeling for Arturia. The kind where at one moment it felt as if an unknown mass of butterflies were in your stomach and in the next an unholy amount giddiness would overtake you. Frankly, she was beginning to be unnerved by it. She was a Squire on her way to Knighthood, and such unknown emotions may hinder her goals, but for the life of her, she just couldn't let them go.

Figuratively speaking, it was as if she had developed something similar to what Kay described about his various misgivings with Llamrei, but on a more positive outlook.

Still, the word that would truly describe what she feeling inside was uncertainty. She didn't know what the future may hold for her, nor did she believe in any way that her decisions in her life were the wrong ones, but, she closed her eyes.

-For the sake of this simple honest feeling, did it truly matter?

Growing up, it was always with the purpose of Duty, Honour, and Merit, the words Sir Ector described to be the most ideal personal foundations. It was Duty that bound him to King Uther, Honour to fulfill the man's final wishes, and Merit for his social standing that allowed him to do what most could not.

A free man of virtue, that was what she aspired to be to save her homeland.

She breathed in slowly, the chill of the morning wind pressing against her body despite the tent she was in.

Did it truly matter?

She didn't know the answer to that question, nor did she truly believe that she would understand the answer found within the depths of her own consciousness, but for this moment-

"You're awake?" Shirou asked, the weariness fading from his face as he pushed himself up on the opposite side of the tent by a sleeping Kay and Sir Ector.

She let out her breath, its warmth causing a small cloud of vapour to form in the cold morning. She turned to face Shirou, and didn't say a word, her face blushed from the cold.

-Uncertain or not, this feeling inside of her was something that she didn't think was ever going to change. In knowing, or not knowing, all those things would eventually come to her in time, but regardless, she was happy.

By now she had realized that her silence was making Shirou fidget, his hand scratching nervously at the back of his head in a way that conveyed that he didn't know if he had done anything wrong. That familiar action brought a sense of comfort to her as if things would never change.

She began to laugh quietly, watching as the expression on Shirou's face softened before he got up and decided to take a seat next to her.

"Your vagrant Knight has returned," he spoke in jest after a moment of silent contemplation.

Her face began to heat up before she began to glare lightly. "You," she spoke. She knew that he knew that she was still rather embarrassed about the oath of Knighthood Shirou had made in their childhood. Even more so because it alone was enough to convince her to let Shirou begin work at the smithy's.

Although she feigned ignorance numerous times, she knew that even now she couldn't deny being able to vividly recall it.

Brows furrowing and cheeks reddening even further, she turned her head to the side and stared adamantly out the tent.

"Hey Arturia," Shirou spoke.

She took a glance at him.

"Why did the other two come along with you?" He asked curiously.

She bit the inside of her lips as she began to ponder. She knew why Emily had wanted to come along, but as for the Son of Wolfred, all that she knew was that he had come for recognition. As she conveyed her thoughts to Shirou, he nodded in understanding.

"For the Son of Wolfred, I can understand somewhat about his motivations. The shadow his father had cast over him as the owner of Bristol may be hard to surpass and at time can be stifling. As for Emily," a bewildered look appeared over Shirou's face. "I," he shook his head. "Frankly, I have no idea."

She stared hard at Shirou, but it seemed as if he knew just as much as her. Yet somehow, thinking about Emily made her feel threatened for reasons she had no control over. It wasn't that Emily was a bad person, but all the same, she would rather Emily be far away from the last Ashton.

She nodded her head as she decided to get out of the tent. Still, "Shirou," she spoke remembering a promise she made the previous day. "Gerrard says you owe him a drink, and he also said to tell you Thanks. For what I'm still not sure."

Shirou nodded his head, giving nothing away.

She continued on. "Also, a Baron by the name of Barwheld has a requested a meeting with you," she spoke as she lifted the covers of the tent and stepped outside. Turning around, she waited for Shirou to accompany her as she had gotten used to his presence beside her.

Eyes furrowing in thought, Shirou stood up and gathered his things before meeting her outside.

Off in the distance they could see Efret still lounging with a small mountain of food laid in front of him, the bird would probably become a fat pheasant of sorts if it ever managed to finish everything. Speaking of which, "since when did he get so large?" She asked.

Shirou didn't answer and instead alternated glances between a small seal engraved in his hunting armour and Efret.

She chose not to pursue the matter and instead motioned Shirou indifferently towards the cooking area as if she was not all interested.

Still,

He simply sighed in response as her stomach growled and her cheeks reddened.

Curses.

LINE BREAK

"Spring had long since passed, and the balance of the seasons had once again shifted. I don't know what the future may hold, or the progress of our mage craft, but everything would be worth it for me and for my husband, if we could simply change the fate of our little boy. Our dear, dear child.

By now even little Efret had begun to take notice, others too.

It was no longer a viable option to leave the house.

Who was the enemy, and who was not?

It was getting harder and harder to trust, but at least my Husband still has those he could call friend.

I worry about him at times, I really do."

Shirou closed the diary in his hands and sighed. He had sought answers for Efret's sudden change in size, but instead was left with more questions. Who was the boy and what had others begun to take notice of? The writer of the diary was most likely the mother, and the father could be none other than Duke Ashton. Therefore, what did it all mean, and what was did it mean by the blood pacts?

The sigil, the symbol of the magic crests engraved in the gear he was wearing continued to give off a faint glow. Through structural grasping, he could see the small wisps of energy connecting to Efret. Even without further investigation, he could deduce the cause of his sudden growth, but the phenomenon still made no sense to him. This was why he had turned to the diary for answers. Of course, he could have simply asked Efret, but after the years of spending time with it, he quickly realized that it didn't possess enough of a vocabulary to converse with him in more than one sentence. More often, they communicated through simple words or eye contact, but he knew it wouldn't work to explain something as complicated as the crest on his armour.

It was now high-noon, and the heat of the sun was beginning to cause sweat to form over the soldiers managing Baron Barwheld's camp. There was a small encirclement around the perimeter with stretched leathers to act as temporary barriers to let other soldiers from different nobles know not to pass.

He stood in front of that barrier blocked by two guards.

"State your business," the guards spoke.

He had come after hearing from Arturia that this particular Baron was looking for him, but he didn't expect this kind of welcome. Regardless, he told them that he had been called to discuss something with their Baron, yet still they didn't let him through.

"A poor sap like you?" One of them asked. "There's no way you're qualified enough, let alone to have actually been invited," the man spoke while eying his choice of wear: one of Arturia's simple brown tunics that Sir Ector had packed for him on the journey. After all, even if it was himself or the other Knights, they wouldn't stay in their armour all the time.

"He's right lad, ya best get goin before we lose our patience."

He frowned, looking at the other soldiers gathering around him. "Look," he spoke. "Regardless if you think I'm worthy or not to meet your Baron, shouldn't you at least inform him."

"For poor lad like you? What's the," the guard paused as he noticed the incredulous stares of the other soldiers and a few Knights around him.

They were the ones who fought near the Knights of Wolfred and witnessed firsthand, the one who had led them to battle.

"Oi, ya growing cold feet?" The other guard asked his fellow guard. "There's no way that the lad really has an appointment with our esteemed Baron."

"R-Right," the guard spoke. Yet even still he was a bit unnerved by the stares of the formed crowd. "Still, I think his suggestion has some merit. So why don't you go and verify this meeting while I wait here?"

"Fine, but the drinks er on ya later," the other guard who was older and gruff spoke.

"Whatever," the guard dismissed before turning back to him. "Happy?" He asked the crowd rather than him.

The crowd began to murmur to themselves, and moments later a black-eyed guard returned. "L-Let the lad through," he spoke through gritted teeth. "The Baron's waiting for him."

Nodding stiffly, the guards allowed him through with no more problems.

While walking through the camp, he soon arrived at the entrance of the most lavish tent. It was red, and lined with small brown patterns that aligned themselves at the base of the tent. A large wooden pole was erected at the center to act as a support for the main structure. Gingerly he called out before walking into the tent.

A man stood there waiting, his back faced towards him with his hands clasped together behind his stomach. "Sorry for the guards," the man spoke. "They really should have known better."

The man turned to face him, revealing his ruff appearance. "You can call me Baron Barwheld."

He nodded his head thoughtfully. "Was there something you needed," he asked.

Baron Barwheld didn't speak for a moment, simply stared at him as if trying to figure him out. He gave up after a moment and instead motioned for him to take a seat in front of the work desk placed in front of him.

He sat down and waited for Baron Barwheld to speak, watching as the man took out two cups and a battle of wine. "Did you know," Baron Barwheld began. "This was how it all started."

Baron Barhweld motioned towards the entirety of the tent, and even then, he could understand that he truly meant all that had now belonged to him. "At the start, it was between a boy with seemingly no standing and a bleak future, and a man of power who really couldn't give a shit," Baron Barwheld laughed gruffly.

Shirou raised a brow.

"A small toast for a time long since passed," Baron Barhweld said without explaining.

Shirou frowned, but said nothing on the matter. Still, he was curious. Baron Barwheld was acting too familiar despite this only being their first meeting. He decided to get to the point. "Was there something you needed?" He asked again.

"You are an Ashton," Baron Barwheld spoke as if it would explain everything. "Judging from your age, you must have been the Duke's son."

"Emiya, I'm Shirou Emiya," he quickly cut in with a strained expression. Even now he wasn't comfortable with the fact that he had taken the identity of another, yet still, if it allowed him to better help Arturia, he would continue to do so with no problems.

Baron Barwheld's eyes widened before a knowing look appeared in his eyes. "I see, so those bastards are still out there after all," he muttered to himself. Those who had gone through any lengths to see the Ashton's removed from history.

Shirou watched as Baron Barwheld took out a bag strapped around his waist and began fishing around within it. He stared speculatively at the smell gem produced. It was blue in colour, and the edges were all refined and smoothed out.

Baron Barwheld placed it on the table in front of him. "I don't know what the purpose of this gem is, but the final instructions that I was given on that day couldn't be any clearer to me now."

Shirou didn't know how to reply, and thus said nothing at all.

Just like the old Duke, Baron Barwheld thought. Quiet till the end, with a gaze that didn't discriminate between poor and rich. It reminded him that some things just didn't change. For him, for Efret, and all the time lost in between, it didn't matter. For in this moment he would due his duty and honour the words in which he spoke on that final dreary and blood soaked evening. He steeled his expression before once again pulling something else out of his bag. A small sigil crafted in wood, the symbol of his status. He placed on the table for the boy to take. It would allow him entry into the town in which he governed, and the other aristocracy in the area would think twice before moving against the last son of the Ashtons.

"These are?" Shirou asked.

"This one," Baron Barwheld held out the sigil. "Is a gift, the other is something far more important."

Placing the small carved sigil in front of Shirou, the Baron grabbed the blue gem and tossed it lightly towards him. "It's supposed to be an inheritance right," he spoke solemnly as he remembered the very same stone in possession of Duke Ashton. "Blood begets blood. The pact will never fade till the very last traces of the bloodline ceases," Baron Barwheld recited the words spoken to him by the late Duke Ashton.

Shirou's eyes widened as the gem landed in his hands and immediately a sinking feeling took root through his very soul, an explosion of power traveling across the land. His face began to pale, his magic circuits all forcibly coming to life, and suddenly he wasn't there anymore sitting across from Baron Barwheld.

He was in a dark cave with large spires of stalagmites and stalactites growing from the roof and ground. Somehow, the entire space seed oddly familiar in the depths of his mind. It was dark, but even then, he could still see everything clearly, including the pair of crimson eyes that stared at him from within the darkest shadow of the cave.

"You," a voice spoke slowly. "It has been a long time since last you were here," the crimson eyes blinked before growing sharper. "Time has passed, the grandeur of this space has already been lost. All that remains are those who could not move on. Those like me."

"You talk as if I know you," Shirou spoke as he assessed his condition. His magic circuits were still shot, making it impossible to defend himself if whatever this thing in front of him were to attack.

If there was one thing that was obvious however, it was that he utterly unprepared for this sort of situation, something he hadn't experienced since the start of the Holy Grail War.

"You do not remember?"

There was a moment of deep silence as Shirou simply nodded his head.

A cold wind blew as the voice began to laugh in self depreciation. "All these years of waiting, all these years of loyalty, and this is the result?"

A figure began to move in the shadows, black furred and the rest of its features indistinguishable in the darkness except for its crimson eyes. "I could tolerate many things after my creation, but this, this I cannot."

It was like a mountain had moved, the very world around Shirou shook. The rock spires fell and crumbled, the anger present in the air palpable in the following moments. And once the world stopped shaking, all that remained in front of him were a giant pair of narrowed crimson eyes that froze him where he stood.

There was a silence, the soft patter of droplets echoing throughout the room.

Moments later a large claw tapped gently on his forehead.

"I'm sorry. Even if you cannot remember, this still must be done." the voice was quiet, solemn even. "The blood of the Beasts call. He who shares in this pact of blood, Awa-"

The crimson eyes suddenly widened, before a fury like none other rose from the depths of its being. "Who dares!" Everything, everything had been erased as if it were simply eaten away.

A sudden force pressed down on Shirou's shoulders, and suddenly, he was gone.

LINE BREAK

It was like transitioning from a dream like state into reality. A murky sort of feeling as if you were awake, but were not really. In that state, Shirou shot up from the chair he was sitting on, startling Baron Barwheld who looked at him perplexed.

What, what just happened? Shirou placed a palm to rest over his face as he recovered his bearings. Even now he could still feel the pain coursing through his body. Reflexively, he stared down speculatively towards the gem in his hand.

"Are you alright?" Baron Barwheld asked concerned. He had been watching since the start; ever since the moment the gem landed in Shirou's hands and a glazed look appeared over his eyes, to the moment Shirou had sprung up from his chair.

Noticing Baron Barwheld's concern, Shirou breathed deeply before deciding that it was time to leave. "Thank you for your hospitality Baron Barwheld and the gifts you have given to me but," he spoke quickly. "There's something that needs my attention."

Excusing himself, Shirou quickly left the room, leaving Baron Barhweld behind.

Sighing, Baron Barwheld went back to planning the next course of action for the army. With this most recent victory, they now had an opportunity to mount an offensive. Perhaps even a siege battle at the walls of Wessex itself was plausible. It would be another long march, but he was sure some of the other local towns could provide some sieging weapons on the way as well.

He began to laugh as excitement began to well up from inside of him. He had not experienced such a feeling since Duke Ashton had died, and now, after all these years, everything had started to move once more because of the man's blood relative.

The fires of his youth once again took residence within his eyes. Back then, nothing was impossible if Duke Ashton was there, and now, based on what they'd seen previously, could the same not be said for his blood?

He cleared the table in front of him and filled a glass up with wine, downing the drink in one go. Even if he was drinking by himself, he truly didn't mind. These days he only drank to reminisce, for despite appearances, he had already given up on the Saxon invasion. They were too much in number, and would eventually over turn whatever resistance he and the other resident nobles were able to put up.

He knew it was wrong, and if Duke Ashton was still alive, he knew he would be subject to more lectures. It was because if one gave up, even that sliver of a chance to succeed would instantly slip away. It was a life motto, and something even he had experienced. His father had labeled him as a bastard son in favour of his younger brother. If he had given up then, where would he be now? Dead perhaps? or maybe no better than a road-side beggar?

Sighing, he took another drink, this time a bit slower.

Back then, nothing seemed as if it would work. They were being invaded from everywhere, sometimes from the East coast, sometimes from the West. With the receding of the military presence of the Roman empire, Britain had become a battle ground for new inhabitants who found opportunity in Britain's weakness. Not only were they large in number, but the way they fought and pillaged dealt a large blow to the locals. Things only became worse after the warlord Vortigern, a self-proclaimed King of the Britons hired the warrior brothers Hengist and Horsa to assist in repelling the invasion force. They had turn-coated and made the situation even worse in the following years, leaving a path filled with countless dead Britons.

It had always been just a simple matter of time until defeat, and the Britons wiped out, but now?

He filled up another glass of wine, and similarly downed it again in one go, savoring the burning feeling spreading throughout his body. It was something that made him feel alive, and now even more so.

He drank today, not to wallow in his own self-pity, but to toast to the coming of a changing tide and the emergence of old friends.

His face began to heat up as the familiar rush of alcohol finally set in. It was a state he had gotten used to in the previous years as regardless of all the bad news delivered in the reports, the impact was always dampened if only slightly. But now, now he was thrilled!

Finishing his drinking, he called for an aide, and immediately issued a message to the other nobles to hold a strategy meeting.

Soon he had gathered them all in the previous tent full of maps and markers to represent their garrisons of troops and cavalry.

He walked in sober, a slight flush on his face. "Gentlemen, Lord Frederick," he spoke with a nod. "The time has finally come to mount an attack!"

The atmosphere in the room could only be described with one word: invigorating. Not only had they defeated the opposing army, but their losses were at absolute minimum, meaning that they still had the numbers required to force an attack.

"It's time to teach those bastards a lesson after all these years!" Military commander Carnick spoke with vigor. "And this is our opportunity!" He slammed his hand on the map on the table. "The enemy has retreated, their numbers reduced to almost nothing in comparison to ours." His hand traced an arrow across the map. "This is their most probable line of retreat. No other Saxon garrisons are present in this area, leaving them little choice but to high tail it back to their fledgling kingdom of Wessex. Therefore, a siege is possible."

"I concur," Baron Ferdenand spoke. "Most of the combatants today were provided from Wessex, leaving many of the cities and towns that comprise it weak at the moment. Even if they had a substantial defense, what can they do against our military advantage!" He pointed at the Son of Wolfred, the current substitute for his father, and motioned for him to draw his sword.

The clang of steel resounded out as a simple sword came into display. Moments after, it bore a hole through solid rock.

"You see that! That's what these bastards are facing this time!" Carnick spoke with glee. As a military commander, how could he not get excited with the possibilities opened up with such superior weapons. Not only that, but he had seen it first hand in the previous battle. At first, he was skeptical about what a mere two-hundred troop division could accomplish against an army five times their size, but even now the image was left etched within his mind. Shields were useless, armour was useless, and even swords were rendered null in the face of such profoundly sharp blades. "L-Lord Frederick," he stuttered. "Y-You must tell us where Baron Wolfred acquired such equipment."

Put on the spot, Lord Frederick put on a simple smile. "The Iron Forge," he spoke. "A smithy's present somewhere within Bristol that produces simple knives that can even cut through stone."

"I see," Carnick spoke with less enthusiasm as he set a reminder for himself to place an order to this particular smithy. However, there was still another question bothering him. "Does anyone know where that Holy Bird came from?" He asked. With its help, surely, they could accomplish a lot in any battle.

"That," Baron Barwheld began. "Was Duke Ashton's partner."

Many of the older nobles nodded their heads, but they didn't particularly remember the bird being so large.

However, Baron Barwheld's statement alone proved a single thing.

"Then he's an Ashton?" Lord Ferdenand spoke for clarification.

The Son of Wolfred raised a brow as he was sure they were currently talking about the boy he threatened to apprehend in his childhood. A sinking feeling began to take root inside him.

"Indeed, of that there's no doubt," Baron Barwheld spoke. "Not only did he display his skills on the battlefield, but the Duke's bird follows him as its master. Knowing that bird, it would never follow someone not of Ashton blood."

The Son of Wolfred felt as if he was going to faint as he realized the sudden implications. Had he already made an enemy of a noble of even higher standing than his father? Forget about stepping out of his father's shadow, he first had to come up with a way to make amends. He wasn't a fool. He knew the only reason his father governed Bristol was because of the Ashton assassination, and therefore, if a male Ashton lived? He already knew the implications.

If anything, with Baron Barwheld's declaration, the excitement in the room only increased further, this time from the older generation remembering Duke Ashton's numerous exploits.

"And so?" Lord Ferdenand asked. "Will he fight with us?"

Baron Barwhled placed a hand beneath his chin as he thought. Based on what he had glimpsed of Shirou's character back in his camp, he could be sure that he would help. There were no traces of fear in his eyes, nor was there any indication of hesitance. "Yes. He probably will," he spoke.

With that single statement alone, there was no more use in planning anything. There was only a single possibility now running through every single noble's minds aside from the Son of Wolfred.

Lay Siege on Wessex.