Chapter 64

The pulsing within his veins.

The scent of iron and blood.

His sword tore through flesh and the sinew of bone, flecks of crimson staining the grass beneath which was trampled underfoot.

Shirou moved one.

Time and time again, he found himself at war on the battlefield, unable to free himself of conflict simply because he wished to do what he believed was right.

What had started off as a simple desire to save all had long since shifted into a lifetime of hardship and struggles searching for the one woman who'd shown him a different kind of fate.

'Your fate is my fate, and my fate is yours.'

He parried and countered, a black blade striking outwards with a craftsmanship beyond simple words. It was pristine, art, an object of admiration, and he used it not for himself, but for her.

'I am your sword.'

The words spoken to him back then always remained deep within him, buried yet driving him on.

"And I am your sheath."

No matter what happened, he had sworn that he'd always be there for her.

Kanshou gravitated to his left, the attractive force guiding him through the chaos of death and violence.

He would be there. He would not stray no longer.

Enemies blocked his path both left and right, up and down, bearing their weapons with the intent to kill.

It mattered not.

He stepped to the side, swerved, then parried.

From a man who knew next to nothing of the way of the sword, to a man who could now maneuver himself through a valley of sharpened steel.

It was her who had first taught him everything.

Twist, bend, strike, retract, move on.

Showers of sparks and the clanging of metal reverberated around him. The soft glow of orange illuminating the neutral expression of his gaze. An unfeeling blade, steel at its finest.

"Monster."

"That's not human."

Do not stray.

Do not falter.

His eyes glanced up, his fingers stretching outwards to grab a sword aimed for his neck while he cut forward with Kanshou.

Skin of steel, and blood of fire. He who bathed in the blood of Dragons did not fear the mundane weapons of man. For his body was imbued with the providence of a Dragon's scales.

A Dragon was noble. A Dragon was power.

Yet he was not a Dragon, but a man whose devotion was beyond any other.

Let the sword be his guide.

His feet kicked forward, shifting into a steady jog, and promptly into a sprint.

In the discord of battle, losing one's way was only natural when swept up against the tide of enemies. Yet no matter how far, no matter the obstacle, he would surely reach just as a miracle was found within searching.

Kanshou would find a way.

The married swords of the Imperial Villa, representing the period of Spring and Autumn.

The devotion to be together even in death.

He jumped, forcing back the others around him to reach his destination.

Kanshou hummed within his hand, calling forth for its counterpart.

Bakuya of the white clouds. A beauty ephemeral like the moon representing a woman whose affection would never wane.

The two swords attracted each other, bringing close their individual wielders.

Arturia. His eyes met hers on the opposite side of the enemy crowd over a dozen meters away.

The obstacles before him meant nothing. He would surely reach her.

His feet once again planted on the ground.

Kanshou flipped in his right hand by the handle, shifting into a reverse grip before he launched himself forward.

Block, turn, strike.

He used his very body to weather blows, and struck out through his momentum. With his left hand, his palmed an enemy's head and hauled the body upwards as a shield while sprinting.

"Arrows! Shoot the arrows!"

"B-But are men are still in the way!"

"Just do it!"

The twanging of strings reverberated through the air; the sky mottled by streaks of grey.

His pupils dilated, his body reacting by instinct as arrowheads grazed passed him. Many struck his body, clunking noises resounding as they bounced off his skin and left behind only faint markings.

It stung.

His eyes narrowed visibly.

The Saxon's attacks hadn't used to hurt previously, but they were gaining in strength, bolstered by faint traces of magical energy.

The Will of Humanity.

It was a simple conclusion. Alaya did not favour the interest of one or the few, but the many.

Why change what already worked?

Even still!

He wanted her to be happy.

So, what if he ended up making a Singularity, a divergence of Human progression. Surely, if he and Arturia worked together, humanity did not have to be set in a single timeline nor would it be threatened.

His eyes turned bloodshot. He could see her now. So close that they were barely five meters apart.

Her clothes were torn. Cuts and bruises spread throughout her body, yet healed by golden light. She was panting, traces of exhaustion evident by the sweat forming over her brow, but still she fought on while channeling her magical power through Bakuya and unleashing surges of crescent shaped mana bursts.

Just as he had noticed her, she had noticed him.

They ran towards each other, beating back the Saxons that had made their way between them until they met mere inches apart.

She was fighting by his side, back to back.

He could feel their connection built from years of companionship.

Adolescence.

Young Adolescence.

They had always been together.

Words need not be said for them to understand what the other intended.

With wings fly high and soar; the cranes reaching towards the mountains and over the yellow river of a different Heaven.

Birds of a feather.

He attacked ahead of her, and she stabbed behind him. There were no flaws, nor openings to be exploited, each complimenting the other. He could feel her pressing her back to his, the subtle up and down of her breath letting him know that she was with him.

It was a blade dance of white and black.

He interlocked his arm with hers, and pulled her away from an enemy strike, all the while retaliating with a forward kick.

"Separate them! We can't beat them when their together!"

Yells echoed through the air, breaking through the din of clashing metal and showering sparks.

Saxons attempted to force their way despite their injuries.

"Shirou." Arturia lowered her center of gravity.

He heard her call.

Pressing himself closer to her, he shifted his weight and hauled Arturia over his back where she curled her body and leveraged off of him with her foot to jump into the air.

Yes. This was it exactly.

Arturia had known him the longest. She understood him the best and the type of abilities that he had. He was not just some Knight or Hunter, but a Magus. If Merlin was the Magus of Flowers, then his moniker was that of the forge and iron.

A Wizard of Swords.

Trace. On.

The reserves of magical energy that he'd kept stored within him began to seep out of him; the steps of projection formulating within his mind in a heart beat.

Begin Projection.

Searching for the catalyst.

Envisioning base core.

Sharp, yet concise. Something that was effective to clear all enemies around him. Tendrils of magical light radiated from him in an instant, singeing the ground beneath his feet and arcing outwards to form the phantom hilt of blades.

They were Swords formed from nothing, the closest comparison to what was known as a True Magic. Elsewhere, Emily narrowed her eyes in scrutiny, unable to determine if his magic was truly just a 'simple' projection.

Regardless, it was finished.

Processes completed.

A ring of swords formed around him at waist level, spinning violently and shearing through all forms of defence, both shields, swords, armour, and otherwise.

All Projections stand by.

Arturia gracefully landed back on the ground behind him, the hem of her dress billowing wildly behind her while fully torn waist-up from the side, revealing the thighs of her right leg. Her hair had long since come loose, wheat coloured strands the same shade as marigold falling passed her shoulders.

She quickly got back into a ready position while a ring of swords hung ominously in the air, maintained by trace amounts of his magecraft. He didn't have much magical power left, therefore he had to be prudent.

There were only six in total due to the depletion of his reserves by tracing Gungnir and utilizing Mjolnir in battle, but the swords existence themselves were enough to beget apprehension.

Far from trying to separate him and Arturia again, no Saxon dared to get close lightly.

Off in the distance, clashing against the Saxon left flank, Tristan and the other Knights felt as if they were looking at Arturia again for the first. Far from the brash, almost suicidal method that she'd used to fight with by using her own body and Avalon's healing properties as a buffer, her fighting style now appeared far more refined and gentler. In fact, there was a liveliness to her that had not been there before, and it showed in her vigour.

Back to back with Shirou, she seemed more alive than she'd ever appeared before.

Still, while facing away from Shirou, why did it look like she was crying? Her cheeks were puffed and reddened at the tips, and her lips were constantly quivering, yet not enough to look as messy as a child. For all intents and purposes, it looked as if she was trying exceedingly hard to hold everything back. It made for a paradoxical sight. Her expression was neutral, but the rosy pallor of her face and the tears that gradually trickled down from her eyes spoke otherwise.

Tristan and Sir Ector were the only ones to notice this little detail, but only Sir Ector shook his head wryly. Sir Ector had raised Arturia and had been with her for almost the entirety of her life. How could he not understand what she was feeling?

'Are you happy right now?'

Arturia was sniffling inaudibly, but her pride as a Knight refused to allow Shirou to notice that she was sobbing due to nostalgia and merriment. It was only when one had lost something that one would realize just how much that 'something' meant to them.

'Focus. Focus Arturia.'

She was drowning in the familiarity that she had believed was lost forever.

She swallowed down the lump forming in her throat.

'He's behind you. Don't make a fool of yourself. Weren't you still going to lecture him?'

She wasn't speaking, but she was doing her best to compose herself.

Fight. Just fight. Focus on the fighting. You can think about everything else afterwards.'

Her attacks became more heated and numerous, yet through it all, Shirou followed up to the pace of her tempo, never allowing her back to become exposed.

Her features softened, a firm resolve forming within her.

'I won't lose you again.'

If she had one thing that she regretted above all in the time that she believed that Shirou had died, it could only be 'that.'

She balled her hands into fists while discreetly glancing at Shirou behind her.

'This time for sure.'

Without the weight of duty or responsibility shackling her to a predestined path, what she had always wanted yet was unable to admit was already increasingly clear.

She pursed her lips.

'After. After.'

She kept repeating to herself as if in a mantra.

Unknowingly, her impatience further escalated both the rate and ferocity of her attacks. She punched out, pulled out her sword from an enemy's leg, and followed up with a flurry of kicks before moving onto the next target.

Shirou blinked, but responded to her actions in kind.

No matter where the two went, it was like sickle slicing through wheat with unimaginable momentum.

"Those two are monstrous," the Son of Wolfred whispered under his breath while pushing against the Saxon's right flank.

It had been agreed on by Tristan and the Son of Wolfred that they would attack the Saxon army on both sides. Of course, before they'd left Agravain had pointed out the stupidity of clashing against the Saxon army head on when the walls of Gwent allowed for better fortifications.

Regardless, Agravain didn't say anything more because he understood that it was because of such brash actions that he was rescued. Moreover, Tristan and the others were unwilling to dissuade Arturia when she finally displayed her true emotions in a plea for aid.

Palamid remained silent at the Son of Wolfred's words. There was no better reaction that he could give simply because he was speechless.

If Shirou alone could turn the tide of a battle with his magic, then both he and Arturia together were a nightmare for their enemies. Still, the two would eventually tire. Therefore, Palamid knew that he needed to do his part along with the other Knights.

Although it hadn't been clearly stated before, the Saxons highly outnumbered their forces right now by a six to one ratio.

"We have to defeat the leader, then route their army," Palamid keenly observed before he shifted his attention to his side. "Can you locate him, Emily?"

Emily nodded in silence. She'd been quiet ever since she'd realized Arturia's true gender and noticed the deep infatuation within her close friend's eyes for Shirou. To be honest, she didn't know what to feel right now because she'd never been a vindictive, nor possessive individual. She was the kind of girl who preferred a happy ending where everyone could smile.

That being the case, what about herself?

She sighed in subtilty.

This wasn't something to think about right now either way. She puffed up her chest, and straightened her back. She'd been warned by her family not to reveal the existence of magic any further, therefore, she'd only reveal her hand if the situation truly called for it, but the thing was, she didn't really need her magic if at all to discover the target.

"It's him over there," she pointed out with a finger. "The one trying to lift Shirou's hammer."

Veins were bulging from Hengist's arms, and his entire face was flushed red from the sheer exertion. To Hengist's disbelief, he was clearly unable to lift the hammer if at all.

"Well, that was simple," Palamid mused aloud while blocking an enemy attack and countering.

"So, it's him," The Son of Wolfred tensed his muscles. "Isn't he the one that survived fighting against Shirou?"

Palamid closed his mouth and squinted his eyes. "That's indeed the case," he nodded.

The three fell silent. None of them felt that they could defeat Hengist on their own simply because they knew that none of them could stand up to Shirou's attacks either. Emily had an advantage with her magecraft, but again, her family forbade her from using it in public unless it was necessary.

Palamid sucked in a breath before pushing out against the Saxons around him.

"Then we just have to make Shirou and Arturia a path."

If it was them, those two could deal with Hengist.

The Son of Wolfred and Emily nodded to Palamid's suggestion, but making that suggestion a reality was going to be difficult.

"How do you suppose we go about doing it?" The Son of Wolfred asked.

In the same instant, an armoured Knight wielding an overly large lance directly charged through the enemy lines like a bull. There were surges of blue magical energy whenever the Knight struck, blowing back all adversaries like bowling pins.

"Gareth, I told you not to charge on your own!"

Emily, Palamid, and the Son of Wolfred watched blankly as Sir Gaheris chased after and began scolding Gareth. Gareth herself grew flustered and began to stammer out apologies. In the end, Gaheris was Gareth's older brother and was only looking out for her.

"Wasn't Gareth only Sir Lancelot's squire?" The Son of Wolfred balled his hands into fists. "What kind of strength is that?"

Palamid only thinned his lips before shrugging. "Well, Gareth is a sibling of Sir Gawain who's stationed at the south Saxons border, so she's bound to inherit that brute's physical abilities."

"…"

Neither the Son of Wolfred or Emily chose to comment. Emily because she had no idea who Gawain was, and the Son of Wolfred because he wasn't daring enough to bad mouth the famed Knight of the Sun. Palamid had his reasons though, and it was more because Gawain had once humiliated him by directly proposing to him.

Regardless, Palamid and the Son of Wolfred's eyes shone at the same time.

"Gather the lancers, we're going to pierce through!" They both gave out the order while Emily subtly decided to reinforce the armour and weapons of the gathering lancers, Gareth included after convincing Gaheris.

Hengist felt his frustration building. No matter how many times he tried to lift the Mjolnir from the ground, it wouldn't even budge an inch. His fingers were already numb from the exertion, and nothing he tried could get him anywhere.

Was it because he wasn't worthy?

The thought caused his expression to contort in fury.

No. That couldn't be the reason.

Hengist had never taken personal pride in his accomplishments, but neither did he dismiss them either. It was he and his brother who fostered the very beginning of the Saxon invasion of the isles. The lands were rich and fertile while the sheep, pigs, and livestock could be bred without fear of limited resources. It was an opportunity for a better future, and he and his brother Horsa had taken the first step for their people.

He was Horsa, a King of the Jutes.

If he wasn't worthy, then no other Saxon could be worthy either. Which meant to say, the problem wasn't that he wasn't worthy, but something else.

Determination swelled from within him at a sudden realization.

If the Mjolnir acknowledged a wielder, then it would never fall into the ownership of another.

Yes. That had to be it.

Hengist thought back to the Legends of Thor, the Norse God of Thunder.

With a swing of his hands, the mighty hammer struck forth with the furor of the heavens. Even when thrown, no enemy could ever pick it up aside from Thor himself.

Thor was the owner in the legends.

In this case, the present owner of the Mjolnir that Hengist was trying to wield in front of him could only be one.

Hengist's eyes narrowed before he turned his attention towards Shirou in the distance.

'I have to kill him.'

It was the only conclusion that he could come to. Nothing else in his mind would allow him to wield the mighty hammer of Nordic belief.

'May Odin watch over this duel.'

Hengist, King of the Jutes will slay the enemy.

Blood pumping furiously within him, Hengist then turned his attention to the one weapon that he had no trouble lifting.

Gungnir, the Swaying One.

Spear of the War God Odin.

The Norse runes that Hengist could see etched into the metal of the spear exuded an otherworldly aura that sent shivers down his spine. It was a divine construct. A weapon of the Norse Gods.

He bowed his head in reverence, before taking the entire spear into his hands.

The world changed.

He could hear the cawing of the ravens, the beating of their wings and sharp cries.

In exchange for Wisdom, Odin gave up his eye. What he got was the power of knowledge.

Odin was the All-father of Norse Legend.

He could see it all. Everything.

It was a world entirely covered in a hazy blue with speckles of dim light shining over the bodies of his enemies.

If the spear was thrust, it would surely strike.

It was the spear that never missed.

Almost instinctually, Hengist stabbed out with the spear in his hand towards the nearest enemy, and watched in fascination as the spear 'bent' to bypass the enemy's guard.

"Gungnir," Hengist spoke its name in reverence before shouting out. "By order of Hengist, King of the Jutes, RALLY TO THE SPEAR!"

Everywhere, the Saxons turned one by one to look in Hengist's direction, fanatism in their eyes as the glowing runes over Gungnir's shaft seemed to come alive under the combined faith of many.

"OOOOOOO!"

Battle cries echoed through the air while Tristan and the other Knights who were attacking from the left and right flanks grimaced. For the first time in the battle, all of them felt utterly exposed.

Even Arturia gave pause while glancing in Shirou's direction.

From what she could see, Shirou wasn't saying anything nor was he reacting.

Was the situation that grim?

She had no answer, but all she cared about was what Shirou was going to do. After all, he merely stood there and stared at Hengist before slowly shaking his head outside of everyone's notice.

Hengist himself was too eager and agitated at wielding the Gungnir in his hands to notice Shirou's subtle action.

In the next instant, the Saxons nearby Hengist rallied behind him before Hengist directly charged forward through the flames Mordred was targeting towards him. It proved little effect simply because Hengist could 'see' just where Mordred's attacks would fall long in advance.

He was euphoric.

He now had the power to oversee all and become the very judge of the battlefield.

His eyes locked with Shirou's in the distance, and he felt his blood boil with fighting intent.

Kill him. He had to kill him. This was the only thought in Hengist's mind.

"Give me your head!" Hengist yelled at Shirou from afar. For all Hengist was concerned, not only would he gain the Gungnir after this battle, but if he killed Shirou, even the Mjolnir would be his.

Hengist directly charged, spearheading a mad dash.

"No you don't!" Tristan brandished Failnaught in his arms and plucked its deadly strings to call forth a requiem of death and despair in the form of invisible wind blades from afar.

The blades struck at the speed of sound, leaving no room for any normal human to react. The moment one heard the melody of the harp, it was already too late.

Tristan did not enjoy killing, but in the end, his weapon was perhaps one of the most proficient tools of murder.

The hairs on the back of Hengist's neck stood on end, but he was laughing all the same.

There in Hengist's field of view, were faint crescents representing Tristan's attack.

Hengist did not fear what he could see coming, and with deft movement, he dodged.

Tristan's expression fell. It was the first time that he'd ever encountered an opponent that could bypass his attacks. By the time, Tristan made to attack again, Hengist had already left out of range.

Tristan clicked his tongue, and gave out a flurry of orders. "Go, move out and support them!"

Hengist paid little attention to those around him at this point simply because he felt as if none could dare stop him.

The feeling was beyond words.

Right now, he felt as if he possessed the very lofty disposition of Odin atop his mighty stallion, Sleipnir. Just thinking about the fact that he'd once fought against Shirou when Shirou was in such a state left Hengist feeling like he was an idiot. And yet now, the roles had reversed. It was he who now had the power.

Everywhere he went, the Saxons under him opened up a path forward to where Shirou and Arturia were still surrounded.

His target directly before him, Hengist could feel the adrenaline pumping furiously through his veins. His muscles were bulging and he appeared similar to a towering mountain while glaring at his foe.

"You are a fool," Hengist said to Shirou while brandishing Gungnir in front of him. "To cast aside this sort of weapon was the same as forfeiting your life."

Shirou didn't respond, but he could feel Arturia tensing behind him as Hengist eyed her in sudden 'understanding.'

"Oh, was it for her?" Hengist's tone was mocking, his words sharp. Hengist had seen how Arturia had been intent on rescuing Sir Ector, therefore, it was a simple conjecture for Hengist to make. "You're even more of a fool if you did all that for the sake of a woman."

Again, Shirou didn't answer, but Arturia was visibly affected at the implication that she had been a liability for Shirou.

"Don't listen to him," Shirou whispered discreetly behind him. He could feel Arturia's agitation.

Hengist only shrugged. Right now, his mood was at an all time high and as such, he didn't mind offering a single piece of advice to an enemy that was going to die.

"Us warriors need only focus on the battlefield and nothing else. To focus your efforts solely on a single woman," Hengist gave out a single remark while shaking his head regrettably. "She'll be the death of you."

Hengist's words weren't meant as an insult, but it struck too close to home.

Shirou remained unaffected, but Arturia started trembling. In reality, there was truth in Hengist's words because it had once already almost happened.

"Shut up," Arturia's voice sounded heated, like she was trying to convince herself. "You know nothing!" Never again. She'd not allow anything like that to happen again.

Hengist raised a brow, but he was done with small banter.

He directly struck out.

Arturia's eyes narrowed.

"Don't!" Shirou called out to Arturia in warning, but she'd long since taken action.

With Bakuya in hand, Arturia charged towards Hengist.

Arturia had always been skilled with the sword. It didn't matter what kind that she used, all it took was a short duration of time to adjust her conditioning and Bakuya was no exception. She wasn't the most skillful with it, but over the course of the battle, she had definitely become adept.

She thought herself enough to defeat Hengist, and yet it was a futile attempt.

Not only had Arturia not mastered Bakuya, but the enemy wasn't using a normal weapon either.

Wielding the power of Gungnir, Hengist could easily see and predict the trajectory of Arturia's attacks. Hengist merely weaved in and out of Arturia's range. An instant later, Gungnir struck out, twisted around Arturia's attack, and directly pierced through her shoulder.

Arturia's eyes widened in disbelief before she groaned. The spear was still stuck through her shoulder, and in a single motion, Hengist twirled the spear and hurled her towards the ground.

It happened in a heartbeat. So fast that there was hardly any time to react, but all Shirou currently saw was red.

Rage swelled from within him.

Arturia was sent tumbling back while panting heavily. She wasn't injured due to Avalon's potent healing, but she was starting to grow exhausted.

It was then that Shirou moved.

He'd been waiting for an ideal moment, but watching Arturia get hurt was not something that he could ever put up with.

If waiting wouldn't work, then he'd make an opportunity himself.

Feet planting into the ground, he lunged towards Hengist in what looked like a suicidal move.

From Hengist's perspective, Shirou was not showing any signs of intending to dodge at all.

Indeed. It was a head-on strike with no strings attached.

Naïve.

Hengist could not understand where Shirou got such confidence to charge at him in the same way that Arturia had done.

A spear was longer than a sword, and Hengist's counter would definitely strike out first.

Without another thought, Hengist tightened the grip he had around his spear and fully committed to the kill. He leaned in forward, putting the entirety of his body weight into his thrust.

In the vision granted to him by Gungnir, Hengist could see all forms of deceit or hidden tactics. Nothing could escape his detection, more so in such a crucial moment.

The spear would surely hit.

And yet, he could not see any fear or apprehension in Shirou's eyes.

Doubt began to cloud Hengist's mind, but he was too late to realize that something was wrong.

Hengist put his all into his attack, time itself coming to a crawl at the most crucial moment.

He won.

He definitely won.

In his gaze, Hengist could see the tip of Gungnir press against Shirou's exposed neck. Even if Shirou possessed a body of steel, even he was not durable enough to block a divine construct with his skin alone.

Hengist was assured of victory and grew complacent with thoughts of owning both the Gungnir and Mjolnir.

It was a mistake.

A cold voice shattered the image of the future Hengist had already been imagining in his head.

"That weapon is not yours."

Hengist could see Shirou's mouth moving, but he could not register the meaning of those words until an instant later.

Hengist's eyes dilated while his breathing hitched in his throat.

The weapon in his hands suddenly vanished. It started at the tip, and then to the base, the flecks of magical energy that comprised Gungnir dissipating like particles of sand.

Impossible.

Before Hengist could fall into denial, a black blade was rapidly enlarging in front of him.

Hengist reacted subconsciously, his numerous years on the battlefield having honed his instincts to a horrifying degree. Moreover, he was being bolstered by the power of the natural order of the world. He twisted his head at the last moment, Kanshou's blade cutting into his chest rather than his face.

Blood gushed out like a river as Hengist staggered back and directly retreated.

Shirou made to pursue, but it was too late. Hengist had fallen back into the safety of the other surrounding Saxons who rushed up to aid him.

Shirou looked at Kanshou, and then to the blood that stained the grass below.

Too shallow.

Shirou was quick to come to a conclusion. His surprise attack had not been enough to critically injure Hengist. In the end, the Gungnir that Hengist was using was still a weapon that Shirou had traced, meaning that Shirou had the ability to simply dismiss it. In a life or death moment, Shirou had been planning to catch Hengist off guard, but it wasn't to be. The man wasn't that simple to kill.

Shirou's expression fell knowing that he'd missed his chance. Worse, he'd lost sight of Hengist within the crowd.

"Surround them! Tire them out!" Hengist's voice could be heard, but within the din of clashing steel, it was impossible to locate.

This was bad.

Strong as he was, Shirou was not confident in fighting a prolonged battle, and neither was Arturia.

The prerequisite for victory was already clear to him.

The Saxons far outnumbered them which meant that the only chance that they had was if Hengist were defeated. Saxon morale would fall, and the rest of the army would surely retreat without a leader.

Shirou shifted backwards, moving towards Arturia who stood steadfast behind him.

His magical reserves were low.

He and Arturia were still surrounded.

Think. There had to be a way.

"Look to the sky."

It was as if a voice had whispered into their ears, lilies blossoming upon the blood-soaked earth.

Merlin, the Magus of Flowers.

The name resounded in Shirou and Arturia's minds.

Light began to shine from the heavens, shards drifting in the wind from the debris of a shattered roof where Cyrwryd and the other nobles had a clear view.

'For whom so ever draws forth this sword from the stone, is the true king of Britain.'

Thus, was the right of the King Chooser.

A sword of prophecy.

Shirou's mind reeled from the moment that he saw the shards above him, for he knew what those shards represented and which sword that they had once comprised.

The shards exuded a radiant luminescence neither overbearing nor too bright, and it pierced the darkness of the clouds to clearly shine upon the one.

Warmth flooded around him, spreading first from his chest and then to his arms, his figure basked in the glow along with Arturia who stared blankly ahead of her.

The shards.

They were floating above him, as if calling out to him.

It was a sword of man. A sword that once broken could never be made again simply because the method of its forging no longer existed.

No. Perhaps there was further meaning.

He stared at Bakuya in Arturia's hands, and understood that this wasn't the blade that was meant for her.

The image itself was already in his mind, and it would be the key to shifting the tides of battle.

What was he, if not a blacksmith?

He'd recast it and make it whole once more.

What was once broken, could once again become whole.

It was symbolic.

A part of Arturia had broken when she had lost him, and now once more, he was back.

What he'd need was his forge and flames hot enough to melt a metal beyond human means.

Then so be it.

First, he needed room.

The six swords he had traced previously around him and Arturia began to whirl and rotate, forcing back any Saxon that dared to get close.

He outstretched his right hand, reaching out towards the distance. He needed it. More than just a weapon of war, it was his hammer carrying the divinity required to mend what was once broken.

Mighty Mjolnir.

The name echoed in his mind, and in the distant crater where the hammer was left forgotten, a deep buzzing noise exploded outwards.

Come.

It was the crying of static and the rapid spinning of turbines. His hammer was soaring through the battlefield, destroying all those in its way until its handle sat within his outstretched palm.

He looked to the shards in front of him and gathered them over the ground.

There was meaning in him becoming a devoted blacksmith in the past few years of separation.

What he needed to do wasn't to Trace the sword to how it had been before, but to make it whole once more and rid it of all impurities to stand the test of time. If the prophecy was broken or already changed, then the reforming of this sword represented a new beginning. A new prophecy.

Forge and recast the sword with the heat of lightning.

The hammer was raised with the thrumming of magic, and promptly smacked down.

Bang!

Thunderclaps resounded, snake like tendrils of Arclight crawling over the ground. None could approach, and even Arturia had to shield her face from the impact.

The casting, and the molding were in his mind held fast by magic.

A hammer of the Heavens.

The heat of the Stars found in lightning.

And the Anvil of the Earth.

Forge it once more.

Bang.

Better.

Bang.

Stronger.

BANG.

The shards were not recognizable to many before, but with each ear-piercing strike, the regality and bearing of the sword gradually returned.

"That sword, it can't be."

The Knights began to gather, their backs straightening, their swords held fast.

"The True King."

Cywyrd balled his hands into fists, standing up on his feet with the other nobles around him.

Hengist looked up and could tell that something was wrong. Danger was literally screaming at him. Despite his frustration with what happened with Gungnir, he quickly decided that it was best to momentarily retreat.

Smoke, and crackling strands of lightning covered the Mjolnir's form, but it had served its purpose.

It was in this moment in time, that the sword was once more formed.

It was light. A light so pure and bright, that one could not help but marvel at its warmth. Shirou held it squarely in his hands.

The Knights were silent.

The Nobles dazed.

And Arturia was smiling wistfully.

He'd done it.

He'd completed it, and yet, he could no longer see where Hengist was.

He looked up.

If there was anyone who could still see where Hengist was, there could only be one.

Efret soared in circles above the clouds, a tiny figure holding tightly onto Efret's back.

Mordred wasn't the same person as she had been before, and honestly, he felt like he understood why. Isolated, repressed, heedless perseverance, and rash bullheadedness, all were apt words to describe Mordred, the Knight of One in her time serving in the army. She had no compassion towards her allies, and only focused solely on the result of obtaining a certain amount of merit to gain the recognition of the King.

It was so one sided that it was pitiful.

'Because that was the only goal that I ever had.'

He looked at her figure up in the sky clutching tightly onto Efret's feathers, and thought back to the hollow expression of the 'Mordred' that he had seen in Saber's memories in the battle of Camlann.

Not once had she ever been recognized.

No matter how hard she had fought.

No matter how hard she had tried.

In the end, she had killed the only person that she admired the most.

'I can't understand you. What do you possibly see in me?'

Back then, in the first battle he had shared with her at the West Saxons border, he had seen it. Her eyes were downcast, her bangs shadowing her face, but she was trembling if only minutely in disbelief. His eyes were partially closed back then, but he could distinctly recall the patter of droplets impacting his cheek one at a time, and neither he nor Mordred were outdoors.

Mordred.

Just what kind of life did she lead before he met her?

'A shield shouldn't talk.'

She had been greatly flustered when she had noticed that he was actually awake, but for the most part, she could not bear to look at him again.

He didn't force her.

He didn't want to make her uncomfortable, or point out the fact that the grip she had around him was increasingly tight as if she was deathly afraid of losing him. She, she was a pitiful child.

Why? Why was he doing this much for her?

He could fool himself into thinking that it was just because she had an uncanny resemblance to Arturia, but really, that wasn't all it was.

Her insecurities and doubts that anyone would ever willingly associate with her. To her, perhaps it would have had been fine if there was at least one person that believed in her, because it would have had been enough. A single pillar of support could go a long way, and in another timeline, that support was Sir Ector. Yet, what would be left to be relied on when Sir Ector eventually died in Saber's timeline.

Despair.

Anxiety.

A wanting to be needed.

That wasn't the Mordred that he knew.

She'd changed.

She'd definitely changed.

And the Sword that would know it best, could only be one.

A sword of destiny thrown purposely through the air.

A person's past did not denote their future, but their present.

"Mordred!"

The Mordred that he saw, and the Mordred that he knew of were entirely different.

She now understood others.

She treasured those close to her.

And most of all, she was no longer alone.

I believe in you.

So long as there were those who would support the ruling monarch, a King or Ruler never had to be perfect.

What did it mean to be worthy? Of course, there were many answers, but, since when was the role reserved for only a single individual?

Worthiness comes from the heart and the strength of one's own character. Just because one was not qualified before, did not mean that one could never change.

What mattered was to be acknowledged, and right now, all eyes were focused upwards.

"If I die, I swear I'll curse you!" Mordred had jumped directly off of Efret's back at his prompting without any hesitation.

This was called trust.

A willingness to put one's own life at risk at another's word alone.

Light began to shine, dim, yet growing stronger like the glitter of dust in the sunlight.

To break the bounds of predestined time and 'choose' one's own fate.

A sword soared through the heavens, intersecting with Mordred's trajectory.

The hilt of the sword sat squarely in her grip, her mind utterly blanking at the impossibility.

She knew this sword.

She'd seen this sword.

Yet now it was her that was being allowed to wield it.

She was no longer the same girl as she had been before. It was the reflection of her personal changes and values.

A King could not be heartless.

A King could not be selfish.

A King could not always be right.

But a King must have earnesty and a love for those relying on him.

Shirou. Sir Ector. Tristan. Bedivere. The other Knights. The people. Arthur.

Mordred wished to protect them all.

So, even if she wasn't worthy,

Please help me.

She could see Hengist in the distance. He was right there. With him gone, the conflict would end.

Her latent magical power funneled into the sword, a radiance spanning across the horizon not of promised Victory, but of the Victorious.

Her magic core thrummed.

Call out its name.

"Caliburn!" The King Chooser.

A surge of blinding light shot off from Caliburn's blade, utterly blasting the area in front of her under the attention of all spectating. A shockwave rapidly swelled out, blowing back the long grass and the swaying reeds.

That's right. Go for it, Mordred! Shirou instantly moved into action, already knowing what it was that he needed to do. He whistled, and jumped into the air as Efret dove towards him.

Mordred's helmet was tossed aside at the apex of the explosion caused by Caliburn's light; her body buffeted by fierce gales that propelled her backwards through the air, and yet still she did not stop funneling her magical power.

Show the bright horizon on the other side.

She didn't want anyone else she cared for to get hurt.

On her name as Mordred Pendragon, Knight of the Round.

Her energy quickly depleted, and by that point, she felt utterly exhausted.

She felt weightless, winds whipping over her body as she arced into a turbulent descent. Fearful as she was of heights, she could muster no strength to even scream anymore.

She closed her eyes as the ground rapidly accelerated towards her, but the inevitable impact never occurred.

"You did good," a soft voice filtered though her ears before a hand pressed itself behind the back of her head and fit her face snuggly over the groove of a shoulder. She blinked her eyes open. Beneath her, she could see the familiar sight of Efret's feathers, which meant to say that she was on Efret's back.

Still, she reddened almost instantly when she realized what sort of position that she was in.

He sat her securely on his lap, one arm beneath her legs, and the other supporting her back. As a woman who had never been good at expressing herself, there was no way that she could keep still from the embarrassment of being seen like this. Her self-image was being utterly ruined. She wanted to cover her face with her hands, but she was too unwilling to let go of Caliburn to do so.

"Shh, stop struggling," Shirou could tell that Mordred was seconds away from shouting at him in a fluster, therefore he had no choice but to sooth her and prevent her from struggling any further. "Your helmet fell off," he clarified.

She froze almost instantly. What was worse than ruining her self-image was for others to recognize her face.

Mordred and Arturia's faces were almost entirely identical.

Words would not be able to describe just what kind of impact seeing Mordred's face would have on the other Knights and members of the King's faction. Of course, this was only in Mordred and Shirou's opinion because they had yet to realize how small of an impact Mordred's features were in comparison to Arturia calling herself a woman.

Regardless, Shirou still gestured to Efret beneath him.

Efret soon rose higher into the air, such that Arturia and the others below could no longer see them clearly.

Once up high, Mordred pushed her face away from Shirou's shoulder, but did not let go of him immediately.

"Where's my helmet?" She asked softly instead.

"Here," Shirou presented it towards her, using an arm to grab it from behind his back. "I was able to pick it up on my way with Efret to catch you," he explained while ruffling her hair. "You did good," he repeated.

Mordred closed her mouth and looked down as she felt a comforting heat rising up to her cheeks.

"Thanks." She lightly responded before gingerly taking her helmet into her hands.

She then placed her helmet back on, but remained silent while looking down at the destruction caused by Caliburn's attack below. Of the rolling hills and grassland, a scorched crater several miles wide marred the scenic imagery. Worse, lingering flames from the balls of fire that she'd been releasing were sending constant trails of smoke up into the air.

The Saxons were in complete disorder and retreating while Hengist could no longer be found anywhere. Palamid and the other Knights were using the opportunity and giving chase, while Arturia's attention seemed to be elsewhere. It looked like she was thinking deeply about a matter that was more important to her than attacking the Saxons.

The battle was surely over.

Sitting on his lap, Mordred felt a sense of accomplishment and joy that she'd never felt before even after victory. It was to the point that she was beginning to doubt whether or not getting the acknowledgment of the King was the only thing that mattered in her life.

"Ready to go down?" Shirou eventually asked.

Mordred was staring at the bright sun above the grey clouds.

"No, not yet," she replied absently.

He was still holding Mordred in his arms, the grip that she had on him allowing her to press herself closer and share his warmth through his leather armour. Her hands were clasped tightly together, her fingers twiddling, the two sharing tranquility within the silence.

Mordred's expression softened beneath her helmet while wrapped in his warmth.

This feeling made her feel as if she was at peace.

Like she'd finally found what she'd always been looking for, though she'd never admit it.

"Just a little bit longer," she asked of him.

He nodded towards her. If that was what she wanted, then so be it.

"Take as long as you need," he said to her.

"Mhm," Mordred hummed back in acknowledgment, her gaze moving away from his while settling a hand near her heart.

She knew that she had to compose herself, but for now, she was just content to be where she was.

Soaring threw the air, Efret revealed the beauty of the blue horizon beyond the clouds, and the rolling hills and grasslands of the Earth beyond the flames of war. It was like a bird flying free from its cage, no longer bound by constraints.

Mordred's eyes were practically shining. There was more to the world than just a dark room in which no light could enter.

Of course, Mordred would not delay forever.

"I'm ready." There were traces of reluctance in her tone, but she still chose to end the moment and return back to the ground. By now, Tristan and the others had already finished their pursuit and were returning.

Shirou gradually descended with Efret and Mordred.

Landing, he helped Mordred hop off of Efret's back and simply nodded to Mordred when she gave him back Caliburn. In truth, he was intending on returning to Arturia anyway.

Speaking of which, Arturia was hurriedly coming right towards him and Mordred.

For Mordred's part, it took her a good minute of blinking and scrutiny to finally realize just who it was that she was looking at, and even then, her mind shut down. From high in the sky, it had been difficult for her to get a good look, but on the ground, there was no denying what she was seeing.

The beautiful woman quickly approaching was Arturia.

Mordred was speechless.

She couldn't be faulted though because he himself was still in doubt at Arturia's sudden change. He hadn't been able to address it before in the midst of battle, but he could no longer ignore it now.

Why was she in a dress?

Where was her armour?

Caught in a stupor, Arturia quickly appeared before him.

She was wearing a torn blue dress that must have had looked utterly stunning before the events of the battle, but now looked 'wilder' than what was probably intended.

Was this still the same person that he knew?

Right now, it didn't matter simply because she hugged him so hard that it was if she feared that he'd vanish if she let go. The force of her hug was such that she knocked him off his balance and straddled him by the waist, giving him no room whatsoever to maneuver any kind of escape. Caliburn, the Sword of the Victorious itself was left forgotten. Arturia didn't even glance at it.

"A-Arturia?" He stuttered involuntarily, but Arturia just continued looking at him.

Could she not understand just where it was that she was at right now?

Tristan and the other Knights were staring, and he could see Mordred practically freezing up at the edge of his vision.

"What are you doing?" He whispered heatedly towards her in confusion.

Didn't she want to be King?

Didn't she want to guide Britain to an era of peace and prosperity?

So then why had she so blatantly cast aside her guise in broad daylight?

There was no way that she wouldn't be seen as a woman right now. It was simply impossible.

Arturia pursued her lips.

"I have my duties, my responsibilities, and my oaths, but," her eyes fluttered with deep emotion. "Am I not allowed to be selfish even just once?" She spoke in barely above a whisper, as if revealing a hidden part of herself.

Without her obligations and reservations, the shackles tying her down, what she had always wanted was just so simple that it wasn't even funny anymore.

No. It was what still made her human.

Surely, he'd understand.

She stared at him, and he back.

There were many thoughts going through her mind; uncertainties, worries, doubts, but even still, was it wrong for her to be happy?

A King was someone that was no longer just a simple human. Merlin had told her of this fact from the very beginning, and yet, he also told her that it wasn't wrong for a king to be selfish.

She'd already made her decision.

She'd save her country.

Not by herself, but together.

Shirou was still staring at her blankly, caught off guard by her reply.

He had always been like this.

Slow on the uptake on the things that should have had been the most apparent.

Perhaps being direct really was the only choice.

Inclining her upper body forward, her hands found purchase on the ground beside his head before she directly leaned in and slowly kissed him on the lips, her scent and bearings taking up the majority of his world.

"W-W-Whaattterrr yyyoouuu ddooooing?!"

Shirou had never heard Mordred's voice sound so shrill, but despite it all, Arturia forced his attention back to her. She pulled slightly away from him, but kept her hands where they were.

Arturia was smiling at his utterly dazed expression.

The two were now older, the scene from their youth and respective roles suddenly reversing.

In Arturia's mind, he may not remember everything.

He may not be entirely as he was before.

But to her, he would always be the same.

Her feelings too would never change.

She was who she was today because of him.

So, take responsibility.

In that moment, she parted her lips and slowly began speaking clearly word for word.

"I love you. Please Marry me."