Fate-in time

46

Palamid was not an overly emotional man; rather he was keen on maintaining proper bearings and the dignity of his social class, displaying grace when appropriate and elegance when needed. However, even he had times where it was difficult for him to retain his noble disposition, and seeing a friend who he had thought dead for years was too heavy of a blow for his composure to take.
"

Well, why aren't you answering?" Palamid pressed, hands growing clammy beneath his armour. Mordred was glaring at him, but he paid Mordred no mind as he simply pushed past her to stare Shirou in the face.
The Knights gathered around began to murmur to themselves quietly. Unlike Mordred who never spent too long in the main camp, the other Knights knew full well who Palamid was. The only shock came with the appearance beneath the helm and the assumption that their leader was a woman who seemed to be chastising a former lover.
The murmurs grew more heated while Shirou for his part, stood dazed. The more he looked at Palamid, the more it felt as if he should know him.
"I am Palamid, Squire of Sir Anders."
A smaller version of a young adolescent wearing full-plate armour flashed within Shirou's inner psyche before abruptly dying out with a brief pang of pain. He winced, the action not going unnoticed by Palamid who abruptly frowned and made to step forward. However, Palamid was impeded by Mordred who stepped in between, her arms crossed and unwelcoming.
The din of chatter suddenly quieted down as Palamid's eyes narrowed.
"What do you think you're doing?" Palamid demanded.
"Standing," Mordred answered curtly.
"Then stand elsewhere."
Palamid made to step passed Mordred but each attempt was met with obstruction, causing Palamid's brows to crease. He'd read reports and descriptions from his acting subordinates that Mordred was difficult to deal with, but Palamid had his limits, especially with the current gravity of the matter.
"Sir Mordred, what is your problem?" Palamid asked, inwardly annoyed, lips curving downwards. He was the commanding leader of the army, and none had ever dared act this brazenly before him. Mordred was the exception, and it didn't help that she was a Knight of the Round.
Hearing Palamid's question cleared the clouds that had afflicted Mordred's mind. She snapped out of it and actually began considering Palamid's words.
What was her problem? Even she didn't know exactly but just seeing Palamid was aggravating. As hard as it was to admit, she felt inadequate when compared to Palamid. Looks, bearings, status, disposition, she was thoroughly outclassed, but at most she should have only felt motivation to one day surpass Palamid. Yet instead, she was growing more annoyed by the second. She was aware that she was being unreasonable, but so what?
She was Mordred. She'd always acted on her emotions before considering any repercussions. It only helped that she didn't currently like Palamid.
"You are harassing my friend," she said, uncrossing her arms, a tinge of red on her cheeks from the shame she felt when she subtly noticed Shirou's ears perk up at her way of address. Coughing to hide her embarrassment, she ignored the burning heat rushing to her ears and continued to stare up at Palamid unflinchingly.
Shirou, for his part, felt a sense of satisfaction from Mordred's acknowledgment. 'Friend' was a stark upgrade from 'Fiend,' after all, but regardless, he didn't need Mordred to step in for him.
He placed a hand on Mordred's shoulder and moved passed her to address Palamid.
Shirou's touch caused Mordred to still before she clicked her tongue and stood to the side.
"Sorry for taking too long to answer," Shirou scratched the back of his head, an action so familiar to Palamid that it was hard for him to hold back his reaction. In the end, his experience as a commander allowed him to maintain a neutral expression.
"Go on," Palamid simply said.
Shirou nodded. "I do go by Shirou, but I don't think I know you," he spoke with sincerity. There was no hesitation in his tone or any noticeable pauses that indicated the use of a lie. Seeing this, Mordred was inwardly relieved and immediately looked smugly at Palamid who stood stock-still.
Palamid closed his mouth as a shudder travelled down his body. He could feel the incredulousness within him start to boil until finally he could no longer hold it back.
"Y-You don't know me?" Palamid bristled, eyes growing bloodshot from unease. "You can't possibly be serious? It's me! We didn't grow up together but we've known each other since we were ten!"
The certainty in Palamid's voice was hard for Shirou to refute. Coupled with the fact that he found Palamid familiar it was highly likely that Palamid was indeed telling the truth. Unfortunately, reality made it impossible to ascertain anything.
"Sorry," Shirou apologized, much to Palamid's disbelief. "You feel familiar, but I've lost my earliest memories, so I can't be certain if I really do know you."
It was like Palamid was visibly struck by a hammer, his expression falling.
"W-What did you just say?" Palamid stammered.
Mordred looked between Shirou and Palamid and felt uncomfortable, feeling as if she was being left out of a loop. Shirou didn't have any memories of the past? The revelation effected her only for a moment before she stowed the information away in her mind. Palamid however was different.
The past meant a lot to him. The memories of Shirou and the things he had done were the memories that made him, the King, and everyone else who they were in the present day.
Palamid quelled his emotions as the urge to knock Shirou out and question him privately entered his mind. But under the gaze of everyone present, he was forced to restrain himself, a shudder travelling down his body.
He was still the commander of the army and needed to maintain his reputation to aspire confidence in the Knights that obeyed his commands. Therefore, as much as he wanted to continue the current conversation, it was useless now that Shirou said he didn't remember anything. Continuing to insist while Shirou remained clueless would only make him look like a fool.
Palamid sucked in a breath and in the same action, placed his helmet back on.
He didn't speak another word from then on, merely hesitating before retreating back to his army tent. The Knights in Palamid's way quickly parted and gave a formal salute.
It was only then that Mordred realized just who exactly she and Shirou had been talking with, the respect in the eyes of the other Knights clear to see.
It was the current commander of the army, Palamid, son of Duke Frederick.
As soon as Palamid pushed open the flaps of his tent, he sat down on the small stool placed beside a sparsely decorated table while feeling utterly exhausted. A map was unfurled in front of him with a weighing stone located on the corner to prevent the map from curling. Various wooden pieces and ink markings were drawn in many locations that depicted the future movements of the army, but Palamid hardly cared.
Looking at the map, Palamid couldn't bother with it anymore and swept it aside with his arm to clear the surface of the table. In which case, he pulled out a blank parchment and a feather quill whose tip was dabbed in ink, and furiously began writing.
Minutes passed, then several.
Each time Palamid completed a letter, he'd read it over and crumple it in dissatisfaction before starting all over again. Following the passage of time, the interior of his tent was soon cluttered and messy, not at all how it used to be.
This was the sight Marcus Freid walked into, and the man was stunned. He'd never seen Palamid do such a thing before. It was unnatural, just as much as Palamid's previous actions of breaking military formation to meet up with a stranger. Worse, rather than resume his previous position of overseeing the army, Palamid returned directly to his private tent, leaving Marcus and the other officers to handle the situation.
Marcus and the other officers were already aware of what Palamid looked like beneath his helm, but it was the first time the common Knight laid glimpse at perfection. Naturally, Marcus and the other officers were far from pleased as they had taken it upon themselves to protect Palamid's 'virtue,' as befitting of a Lady. Of course, Palamid would probably strangle them if he ever discovered their thoughts, but those were matters for another time.
Marcus debated whether he should interrupt Palamid, and eventually couldn't hold himself back. "Captain, who was that man exactly?" He called out in displeasure. As far as he was concerned, the care and emotion that the Captain had shown was too envious for an upstart recruit. It wasn't fair.
Palamid grunted to let Marcus know he'd been heard.
Gradually, Palamid put down the quill in his right hand, read over the letter he'd just wrote, and crumped it up again in dissatisfaction. It was only then that he took the time to give Marcus his full attention.
"His name is Shirou," Palamid said reminiscently, the sound of his voice, soft and elegant, almost enchanting to listen to.
Marcus nearly fell into a daze before shaking his head and recalling the reason for his visit.
"This Shirou person? Does he really qualify enough to put you through all this trouble?" Marcus was clearly dissatisfied. "Not only did you abandon the morning meeting, but now you're spending your time here crumpling parchment as if they were as bountiful as a Summer harvest."
It was only after Marcus mentioned the fact that Palamid realized just how many parchments he'd wasted. His father was a nobleman, but it was still difficult to provide so many parchments cheaply. Inwardly embarrassed, Palamid turned his head to the side, not knowing that the action caused Marcus's heart to beat furiously as his misconceptions regarding Palamid intensified.
Seeing that Palamid had no words of rebut, Marcus wordlessly let the matter of the parchments drop and focused solely on the individual who somehow earned his Captain's full attention. Instantly, his entire disposition grew hostile as he considered discussing with the other officers to give Shirou a little lesson. If he even dared to make the Captain unhappy then Shirou should better wish he was dead.
Hands balling to fists behind him, it was only when Palamid coughed into his hand that Marcus composed his mind.
"You do have a point. I shouldn't be this wasteful. I'll think out what I'll say before I write," Palamid conceded before sighing. "As for the matter regarding Shirou, it's more complicated than you may think."
Marcus furrowed his brows. "Complicated?"
Palamid nodded before taking off his stuffy helmet. His helmet was uncomfortable and now that he was no longer in public, he had no qualms with removing it.
Marcus didn't dare to stare for too long and averted his gaze lest he grow muddleheaded and make a fool of himself. Heedless of Marcus's internal battle, Palamid continued on while tying up his hair, the loose strands getting in the way of his vision.
"I had many friends growing up. One being the King, and another being the Son of Wolfred, but there was still another perhaps greater than anyone I've ever known." There was a seriousness in Palamid's eyes that made it impossible for Marcus to interrupt to ask questions. Instead, he just stood there silently.
"I know that you and the other officers may just see Shirou as some commoner randomly recruited by Sir Mordred, but he used to be known by a different name. In fact, I reckon that the King himself would be rendered speechless at the kind of accomplishment Sir Mordred has unknowingly accomplished on a whim."
Palamid stood up from his stool and began pacing.
Marcus crossed his arms. It was difficult for him to fully believe Palamid's words. What kind of merit would deserve the King's attention just for finding a person who Marcus learned was just a common blacksmith?
"What kind of person could be so important?" Marcus blurted out.
Palamid shook his head and didn't answer immediately, replying instead with a question.
"Do you know who the King probably trusted and believed in the most in the world?" Palamid stopped pacing and turned to face Marcus directly. It was a blow Marcus's heart couldn't take as he hurriedly averted his gaze. Palamid continued speaking regardless. "It was a man who could create miracles, all for the King's sake."
Palamid thought back to the past, boundless admiration welling up from within him.
"He never complained, he never gave up, and he always found a method to victory. He was someone that I, regardless of all my achievements, still look up to. Weren't you the same, Sir Marcus?" Palamid paused, staring at Marcus intently.
"I-I look up to him?" Marcus muttered in confusion. He winced at the disappointment he could see in Palamid's eyes.
"You came from near Bristol, didn't you? Then all the more reason you should have heard of him before!" Palamid exclaimed. "Just try to think, he's practically a legend, one of Britain's greatest heroes sung by the local bards."
Marcus scratched his head, unable to make the connection between Shirou and any hero he'd ever heard of before. "Sorry, Captain, I'm not exactly the smartest bloke."
Palamid sighed before clasping his hands behind his back and looking solemn.
"If King Arthur is the promising King that would lead our local forces against the Saxon invaders then Shirou was the King's Right Hand."
The revelation of Palamid's words struck Marcus with the power of a sledgehammer. He reeled, as if physically struck.
"C-Captain, Y-You can't mean he's-"
Palamid nodded. "Lord Ashton, Duke of Bristol and High Noble of Britain."
"Forger, Beast Slayer, Winged Rider, Master Archer, God of Agriculture, and Wizard of Swords," Palamid began to list with his fingers. "His titles are daunting, but that's the type of individual he was, composed and level-headed even in childhood."
The feats Shirou had accomplished were hard for anyone to imagine. The effects of the farming technique he had imparted to David, Emily's father, were enough to supply rations for the entire country after being readily adopted as the new farming standard. He was practically a God to all the serfs and peasants struggling to procure enough of a harvest to survive through the winters. Some had even set up small alters in re-enactment of the ancient Greek tradition of worshiping heroes, many visiting Bristol to offer their respects.
Furthermore, it was hard to imagine the effect Shirou would have if it was revealed that he was also the blacksmith of the famed Iron Forge. Nobles would kill just to recruit Shirou and have him create weapons and armours for their personal Knights.
Moreover, if the Ashton name made its reappearance in Britain once more, then it wouldn't be an exaggeration to say that the King would finally have the full support of the old Nobility. Despite being the King, many older lines of Nobility saw Arthur as a greenhorn and had no confidence in lending their Knights to support the war effort.
Lord Ashton however had a stellar reputation on the battlefield, his titles containing not one shred of doubt. In fact, the initial nobility that had joined King Arthur's cause were swayed by Shirou's presence beside the King alone. It was only afterwards that the King was able to win a few of the Nobles over with continued success on the battlefield.
Lord Ashton's re-emergence would be a turning point to the current stalemate against the Saxons.
However, nothing was ever that easy.
"H-His Lordship is actually fighting in the army with us?" Marcus was thrilled to hear such news, the dissatisfaction and hostility he had for Shirou suddenly disappearing. Lord Ashton was the idol of many aspiring Knights and officers. Marcus was no different.
Palamid didn't answer, Marcus's question.
If Shirou didn't remember, chances were that he wouldn't recall his own capabilities either. The entire situation was going to be difficult to deal with, but for the sake of a friend he thought long since dead, Palamid would spare no expense.
The only hard part of the current situation was how Palamid was going to break the news to the King.
Besides, no matter how sure Palamid was that Shirou was the Lord Ashton he knew, he would have to be absolutely certain before he made such a report to the King. The King, well, Arthur was never the same after Shirou's disappearance. He still smiled and displayed emotions in front of friends and family, but in private, Palamid had seen more than once the King's expression look so dead and pale that he grew concerned that the King was afflicted with some kind of curse or illness.
After further consideration, Palamid realized that a written message would never be able to convey all that needed to be said. The King in person should be able to ascertain everything, and as such, Palamid made it a priority in his mind to take Shirou directly to the King to judge.
The impulse to abandon everything and seek an audience with the King nearly overwhelmed Palamid, but he knew he'd have to wait until after the battle at the border of West Saxons. He couldn't leave his post as the commander of the army on a whim as it was his duty to repulse the invaders of his homeland. It didn't help that the army was set to march in a few hours, rendering him unable to delay.
"Marcus," Palamid called out in all seriousness.
"Yes?" Marcus's expression mirrored Palamid's own: Decisive and unwavering.
Palamid smiled in approval.
"For the time being, send someone to monitor him. Keep him safe and away from trouble. The coming battle will be dangerous."
"By your orders!" Marcus saluted and left.
Left alone, Palamid absently placed a hand on the hilt of his sword. He knew that the Saxons outnumbered them by a ratio of almost four to one, but he had to remain steadfast. The plan he had devised should work, no it had to work. There were no other options.
He began to pace back and forth.
As Palamid continued weighing the odds of victory in his mind, he couldn't help but recall Shirou's presence in the current army. Even if Shirou didn't know his own capabilities, it didn't matter as long as he was there.
There was no basis to Palamid's confidence but his countenance lightened in mirth, a smile tugging on his lips.
Maybe, just maybe, a miracle would occur.
The army was on the march to the borders of West Saxons after an early morning meal. The sun that had previously been up overhead was replaced by thick grey clouds that soon blotted out the sky and created a heavy gloom.
Cold winds battered against the heavy steel armour the Knights wore, and the constant marching was exhausting on the average Knight. Sweat filled their brows and many opted to remove lighter pieces of their armour which they stored away in bags hung on their backs or tossed onto supply carriages.
Shirou and Mordred were different though. The two of them hardly seemed to be exerting any effort at all. Mordred for her part was a trained Knight who had already adjusted to a life of travel while wearing her armours, weapons, and personal gear. Shirou on the other hand was just a common blacksmith, but the amount he was carrying reminded Mordred of a packmule.
He was simply too kind.
On top of carrying the regular hammers and necessities he had brought from his smithy, Shirou had offered to carry the other items of the Knights who were exceedingly exhausted. His current appearance caused the common Knight to stare warmly at him. Many who realized that Shirou was just a blacksmith made a silent oath to protect him on the battlefield. This was the case for the small regiment of Knights forcibly drafted by Marcus and the others to be led under Mordred's command.
It astonished Mordred to no end. It was to the point that she was actually considering asking Shirou for advice to be more likable.
Shirou, ignorant as he was to the effect of his actions in the army, was leisurely walking along like nothing concerned him. Contrary to belief however, he just had his own considerations to contemplate.
"Is there something wrong?" Shirou asked, glancing around behind him at Mordred who was trailing his back.
"No," was the curt reply.
Shirou knew better that to take Mordred's words at face value. He slowed his pace to walk side by side with her.
"You've been staring at me for the past-half hour without saying a word," he explained, much to Mordred's horror. Her body stiffened up in distress at being caught in the act, but she was unwilling to admit anything.
She clicked her tongue and kept her thoughts to herself. No matter how much she wanted to ask about the previous matter with Palamid, she didn't think herself close enough with Shirou to pry into the topic despite her curiosity. That being the case, she was growing a tad irritable with the expressions of envy occasionally directed towards Shirou, her face morphing into a glower.
It was no secret that many in the army saw the interaction between Shirou and Palamid earlier. The only problem was that Palamid's appearance was just too alluring for any man to look at and not feel anything. This was one of the many reasons Palamid had forbidden himself from ever showing his face outside of private meetings and gatherings. It was too troublesome to deal with.
If not for the fact that Shirou's reappearance was too ground-breaking, Palamid would never have had recklessly taken off his helmet. Rumours in the army had begun to spread that they were currently being led into battle by an Angel. On one hand such a rumour boosted morale significantly, but on the other hand, Mordred was annoyed, especially with talk of Shirou and Palamid being in an ambiguous relationship.
As a person of keen hearing, Mordred heard every single detail, making the glare she was unconsciously directing at Shirou more and more prominent. However, she couldn't be completely mad at him either as she had heard from Shirou himself that he had no memories of his past. This being the case, she had nowhere to vent her growing ire and it was showing on her face.
The other Knights in the area were giving her a wide berth, none but Shirou directly walking beside her which somehow alleviated much of her sour mood.
Still, from the contemplative look on Shirou's face, Mordred was certain that the reminder of his missing past was occupying his mind. She wasn't used to this kind of Shirou. The one she knew was the blacksmith who never failed to put up with her and was now risking his life on the battlefield for a stranger he'd only met for around a week. He shouldn't be so caught up in something he couldn't change at present.
She grunted, suddenly clapping Shirou in the back.
He stumbled forward.
"HEY," Shirou shouted in complaint. "I'm carrying enough as it is and it's hard to balance all…" His words trailed off.
Perhaps because Mordred had never attempted comforting anyone before, her actions could be considered brash, but imagining the look on Mordred's face, Shirou could understand her intentions. She probably noticed his troubles at the reminder of his missing past and wanted to console him. However, she had no idea how.
Mordred's current expression was a mixture of 'maybe I shouldn't have done that,' and 'I still want to help though." Her lips didn't seem to know if she wanted to smile or scowl at him, and instead created something in-between. With the small flush on her cheeks, it was hard for Shirou to hold anything against her when it was clear that she had just wanted to help in some way.
Images of a little girl happily munching on roasted chicken legs surfaced in his mind; the girl smiling at him with bulging cheeks and oil smears stabbing at his psyche like a dagger. It was almost too much to take when he realized just how similar Mordred's facial profile was to the child of his past. Were they in fact the same person? He couldn't be sure, but it wasn't something he wanted to think about now.
He shook his head and smiled.
"Thank you," he said.
There was no point in getting stuck up over fragmented memories he still had no answers to. Those answer should come in time anyway. For now, he would focus on the present.
Hearing his thanks, Mordred turned her head to the side and no longer dared meet his gaze. "Who needs your thanks anyway," she huffed.
Looking at her behaviour, Shirou didn't say anything and simply allowed her to recompose herself.
Thereafter, he grew solemn with the sounding of the horns.
It wouldn't be long before the current army met the enemy forces.
The known leader of the Saxon army was a man named Alger Merns, a fierce spearman that had worked his way up the ranks through his own capabilities. Palamid had explained in a previous army gathering that Alger was exceedingly brutal to any enemies. He hung their corpses with rope to rot over abandoned city walls throughout West Saxons to serve as a warning for any with thoughts of opposition.
Hope lied with the King, and that was why Palamid and the other Knights fought in their own ways.
The coming battle was one where the Saxons undoubtedly possessed the advantage. Palamid's main priority as the commander of the army was to prevent Alger from completing the defensive forts the Saxons were in the midst of creating along the border. Should the Saxons be allowed to succeed, it would be almost impossible to drive them out of the country. Palamid knew that King Arthur and the forces under him couldn't afford to undergo constant siege battles with their smaller numbers.
Over time, more and more Saxons were arriving from foreign lands to replenish their casualties whereas the Britain's were steadily dying out.
The importance of the current battle was clear, and that was why Palamid had long since sent a cavalry to harass the Saxon supply lines before the main army arrived.
After spending almost an entire week marching, the hour of the decisive battle arrived.
Palamid pulled up on the reins of his horse, his expression beneath his helmet pale while a shiver traveled down his back.
"B-But that's impossible," Palamid swallowed, staring at the completed Saxon fort in front of him. Part of the fortification were made of thick stone while others were supplemented with numerous layers of cut wood. To make everything worse, a massive fourteen-foot wall surrounded the entire encampment, rendering the utility of the cavalry Palamid had brought to near zero.
Palamid's fists were clenched so hard that his knuckles had whitened and his nails were digging into the leather of his gloves.
Nearby, Marcus and the other thousand-man commanders wore grim expressions.
"Look over there!" Marcus suddenly yelled out, pointing with a finger. "These cheap bastards."
Following the direction of Marcus's finger, Palamid understood how it was possible that the Saxons had already completed an entire fort in such a short period of time. It wasn't that they built an entirely new fort, they built over a pre-existing one.
The foundations of an old Roman encampment could still be seen protruding from stones in the ground, but to save time, the Saxons had reduced the overall reconstruction area. In the end, they were able to complete the fort even with the cavalry Palamid had sent months earlier to harass them.
Speaking of the cavalry, Palamid shifted his attention to the small unit of two-hundred riders galloping to his location.
By the time all the riders approached, it wasn't difficult to see the guilt and shame on their faces for failing their objective.
"Apologies, Captain. There were too many Saxons for us to distract fully," the Captain in charge of the cavalry stepped forward and bowed lowly. It was clear that the man was waiting for punishment, but Palamid knew the country needed every man it could get.
Palamid raised a hand and wordlessly gestured for the cavalry leader to join the ranks with the other riders.
Palamid gritted his teeth. He couldn't give up. Not everything was lost yet. If he could somehow just lure the enemy out of their base and into the open, there was still a chance at victory. A siege however was impossible, not without siege weapons which he didn't prepare due to the length of the journey and their shortness on time. Moreover, the Saxons presently outnumbered them four to one based on the reports he had read.
"Shit!" Palamid cursed loudly, the others near him sharing the sentiment.
Alger was no fool and wouldn't easily move out his entire army. Even if Palamid and the army showed up, at most Alger would send out a similar sized force to chase them away.
Silence descended over the area.
"Milord," Marcus said tentatively after a moment, urging his horse to ride up to Palamid. "With the situation as it is, I think it best that we-"
"Don't say it!" Palamid glared. "If you admit it now, then our loss may become a reality. Even if we can't win, we have no choice but to fight! We have to bring that fort down otherwise the Saxons will occupy strategic ground and be within several miles of our already dwindling lands!"
Palamid beckoned his horse forward, leading the charge without another word. All Marcus and the others could do was follow as the pitter patter of rain began to fall.
A storm was coming.
As Palamid and the other officers marched the army within view of the Saxon stronghold, it only took mere moments for Alger to organize a formidable force to face them. Rather than stay in their fortifications, many Saxons who were endlessly harassed during the fort's construction were out for blood. Although it was true that they could simply wait out Palamid and force him into a siege battle, Alger wouldn't do something so troublesome. Not only could Palamid continue to intercept the fort's supplies by stationing his army nearby, but Palamid's presence alone was akin to an annoying mosquito for Alger. The sooner the mosquito was swatted, the better.
Alger's did exactly what Palamid wanted. With a force four times the size of Palamid's own, Alger sent out an equal army of men to face off against Palamid. Unfortunately, the commanding leader of the army Alger sent out was not himself, but a subordinate.
Palamid's expression darkened. He wanted to goad Alger into leading the battle himself, but despite his fighting prowess, Alger was still a cautious man. The best-case scenario was that Alger would grow enraged at the loss of his forces and personally take to battle. However, on the off chance that Palamid won consecutive battles, there was still no guarantee that Alger would not just decide to reluctantly force a siege. In which case, Palamid was already preparing for the worst by sending a small unit of men to cut down trees to use as battering rams.
Meanwhile, as the battle started and Palamid ordered the army into an offensive formation, Mordred steadily became aware of a single fact.
"The commander positioned us in the rear?" Mordred seemed devastated with the realization, visibly agitated.
Shirou perked up as Mordred spoke. He was in the midst of tightening his loose tunic and testing the weight of his forging hammer.
"Is that really a bad thing?" He couldn't help but ask. Generally, in any clashing medieval army, the rear was always the safest unless pincered.
Mordred glared at Shirou at his reply before she pursed her lips. She greatly admired and looked up to the King, setting the King up as her ideal image of a Knight. However, no matter how hard she strived or how difficult a task she completed, it never felt as if the King ever acknowledged her. She'd comforted herself with the fact that she'd still been unable to pull off feats similar to Lancelot, but she was more capable of a Knight than Bedivere wasn't she? However, she still wasn't recognized for her efforts and contributions…
Did the King dislike her?
No, she was quick to deny.
That was impossible. Mordred could not recall anything she'd ever done to earn the King's hate or ire. In fact, it was her dream to be openly welcomed one day as a proper Knight of the Round. And for that, she'd just need to accumulate even greater merits.
"I can't stay in the rear, Shirou. I have to prove myself," Mordred was adamant, but even if she wanted to go straight to the front line, directly doing so would count as breaking military protocol and she couldn't risk it. Inwardly a part of herself was already certain that Agravain could use her breach in military command to downplay any merits she could have had earned.
It was as if Mordred's back was against a wall, and Shirou wasn't naïve enough not to notice. He wouldn't pretend to be ignorant either. She was the woman who motivated him enough to leave his smithy. The same woman who sparked an interest within him that no woman in Exeter had ever done before and even allowed him to recollect pieces of his past.
He placed a hand on Mordred's shoulder, prompting her to stare up at him.
He smirked before backing away from his position in the ranks, much to the bewilderment of the other Knights assigned to Mordred. Many with friendly relations to Shirou called out to stop him, but Shirou shrugged off everything.
"OOh nooo," Shirou spoke in monotone, staring at Mordred in a deadpan. "I'm breaking ranks, who could possibly stop me."
The Knights around Mordred blanked at Shirou's words. If they were strictly to follow protocol, then Shirou's action of leaving his assigned post was tantamount to enforced military punishment. In which case, that duty fell upon the highest-ranking individual in the unit.
One by one, the Knights assigned to Mordred turned to stare at her. Mordred herself had still yet to process what was going on, and by that point, Shirou had already gotten a head start.
Moments later, Mordred understood.
A feeling of warmth and companionship she had never felt before overwhelmed her as it nearly brought her to tears. Not one person she knew of had ever done so much for her. Breaking military protocol wasn't a light matter and even death could be implemented as a punishment, but for her sake, he didn't even hesitate.
She sniffled, composing herself in the next moment.
"You Fiend, get back here!" Mordred began to give chase, a spring to her steps she failed to notice.
The Knights assigned to Mordred that were left behind looked across at each other before shaking their heads. The impression they had of Mordred, Knight of One, subtly changed, feeling for the first time that Mordred wasn't as intimidating as her armour seemed.
Rain poured down across the battlefield, the air saturated with the heavy scent of iron.
Palamid thrust his sword forward, parrying the strike of a Saxon and plunging his blade directly though the Saxon's armour. On the pommel of his sword was the symbol of the Iron Forge. It didn't matter how durable the enemy's armour was, his sword cut through it like butter.
Panting for breath, he maneuvered his horse to continue the assault.
Bodies lay strewn around him, mangled in places and missing limbs. As the armies clashed, casualties were inevitable.
"Hold the formation!" Palamid ordered loudly, a grimace on his face. Already he had lost almost a hundred infantry even with his cavalry applying enough pressure to prevent the Saxons from collapsing their front line.
Still, the circumstances weren't good. With the sudden storm over head, the ground had become increasingly muddy which limited both mobility and visibility.
"Raise the shields!" Palamid continued issuing commands as the archers on the opposite side let loose their arrows. In response, numerous iron and leather shields were raised to deflect the initial volley. "Return fire!"
With the tension of the battle, Palamid was in a heightened state. His eyes would flicker with even the slightest of movements, and his body would react accordingly to oversee the battle. It was utterly exhausting, but Palamid didn't relent. His figure could be seen constantly moving throughout the battlefield, and it was precisely because of this that he noticed something.
That beautiful bastard.
Palamid had no proof if Shirou had remembered anything of his numerous feats in the past, but seeing Shirou moving directly towards the Saxon army despite being initially positioned in the back line, the expectation within Palamid was threatening to burst through his chest. After all, what Shirou represented to Palamid in the past and in the present was hope.
"Continue the assault, don't give in!" Palamid called out with a burst of confidence. "Victory just may lay beyond the horizon!"
With a furious bellow, Palamid urged his forces forward.
In the meantime, Shirou was recklessly charging ahead with no idea what he was doing. Mordred was almost directly beside him, but rather than apprehend him, she was readying the new sword he had forged for her.
In only a scant few steps he would personally enter the battle zone. Perhaps his trepidation was showing, but Mordred gave him a reassuring nod.
"Follow after me," she said. "The target is the enemy leader. If he goes down, it's likely that the rest of the army will retreat back into the fort."
"Got it," he acknowledged, readying his hammer in his hands. In the very same instant, he and Mordred collided with the Saxon forces.
Mordred grunted, slashing out with her sword and forcing the enemy back with the sheer power of her swing. It wasn't just one person she literally blew away, but almost three people at once.
Shirou had never considered just how strong of a Knight Mordred was, but the way she was mowing down enemies left and right with a simple swing of her sword was impressive. As Mordred steadily proceeded forward, nothing the Saxons did seemed to be able to stop her. She was directly cutting a path to the leader.
Shirou followed suit, his hammer raised and bludgeoning any Saxon that dared strike Mordred's back. Strong as Mordred was, she still had her limits, and that's what he was there to cover for.
As the battle ensued, more and more Saxons were starting to pay attention to him. With every swing of his hammer, he didn't send as many people flying as Mordred, but instead, he sent them rocketing towards the sky like hay sacks. Fighting at the front, Mordred hardly noticed what was going on, but from the perspective of the other Saxons, it was as if they were tossing themselves at the mercy of a wild beast.
It was only after Shirou accidently hurled a man passed Mordred's head that she turned around to stare at him.
Surprised at her sudden actions, Shirou monetarily grew careless, a sword directly cutting across his chest.
Mordred saw red, the rage within her prompting her to yell out in fury, but she froze moments later.
"I told you before," Shirou said, pulling off his torn tunic to reveal a chiseled chest tanned bronze due to the constant exposure to heat. Not one mark was left over his skin, no traces at all. The sword that had just ruined his tunic was held in his right-hand moments before it began to whine and crumple in his grip. "I'm confident in my durability."
Mordred gawked, momentarily stunned and not realizing that she was staring for too long. Other than just Mordred, the one affected the most by the current situation was Shirou's attacker.
The middle-aged Saxon man was horrified before adrenaline kicked in and caused his eyes to dart back and forth. Eventually, his eyes settled on the weapon in Shirou's free hand.
A-A hammer? It was the last thought the Saxon had before he was sent flying nearly fifteen feet into the air.
It was like a signal of sorts as every Saxon near Shirou focused their attention on him, no; Not him. They were looking warily at the hammer in his hand with trepidation. Mordred too wasn't an exception, and in her carelessness, she left herself open to attack.
Eyes narrowing, Shirou didn't even consider it before hurling his hammer forward. Barely a forearm's length in size, it sailed with such speed that only a streak of silver could be seen.
It buried itself into the chest of Mordred's nearest attacker and it didn't stop there. The hammer carried such momentum that not only did it force the Saxon off his feet, but it buried the Saxon deep into the ground where it landed, killing the man instantly.
Shirou blinked. His physical capabilities not only allowed him exceedingly high defense against mundane weapons, but his offense was by no means weak either. He used just a bit too much force.
An eerie silence resounded.
Mordred didn't know what to think anymore. If before she had been skeptical of Shirou bringing a hammer to a battlefield, she had no complaints at this point. As far as she was concerned that definitely wasn't just some normal hammer.
As Mordred was lost in her thoughts, one of the braver Saxon men thinking on the same lines as Mordred had a decisive look flash across his eyes. An instant later, he made his way towards the hammer to try to pick it up. None stopped the man, and Shirou had thrown his hammer too far for him to reach it right away.
Although the scene of a warrior wielding a hammer in the battlefield wasn't that significant in Britain, it held a different meaning for those of Anglo-Saxon descent.
Hands trembling, the Saxon placed them around the hammer's hilt and pulled. Hard.
Every other Saxon's eyes widened in disbelief. No matter how much strength the man put into his arms, the hammer would not budge.
The eerie silence intensified, some Saxons giving Shirou odd looks as many had seen his seemingly invincible body. Shirou's red hair also signified that he wasn't of local descent.
As the Saxon continued his attempt to lift Shirou's hammer, more and more Saxons came to offer their aid to no result.
It was at this point that a voice startled all of them.
"That's mine," Shirou said, pushing everyone aside and lifting his hammer with one hand. Many hitched breaths resounded at the same moment.
It was as if everyone had forgotten that they were in a war zone.
Shirou's hammer was tailor-made to match his superior physical condition as a normal hammer would simply break after a single use. He had forcibly condensed numerous ingots of steel and metals by continuously compressing them together and then forging the product into the shape of a hammer. It was exceedingly burdensome to use for the average man, but for Shirou, it was perfect.
No Saxon dared to block Shirou's path as he walked, and it wasn't until Mordred continued her killing spree towards the Saxon leader that the Saxons snapped out of their daze.
They immediately attempted to reorganize their defensive lines, yet unfortunately, it was too late.
The leader of the Saxon army was positioned on a high-hill separated around ten meters from the army so that he could oversee the entire battlefield. Lightly guarded as the leader was due to over confidence, Mordred broke through the flimsy defense as surely as piercing through parchment.
"I-Impossible," the Saxon leader attempted to retaliate as Mordred engaged in a fierce fight of swordplay.
Breathing heavily, the Saxon leader was on older man who had grown portly and out of shape due to the relative stability of his position. He was attacking wildly without restraint, his movement impaired by the excess fat he had accumulated over the years.
Mordred only had to continue parrying and wait for the Saxon leader to tire himself out, and by then it would be over.
In the midst of the fight, the Saxon leader was furiously signalling for the other Saxons nearby to come to his aid, but they were rooted in place as Shirou stood in between. Recalling Shirou's earlier display, the way the Saxons were looking at Shirou was as if he wasn't actually a human. They hesitated, and that was all the Saxon leader needed to see.
Despair filled the Saxon leader's eyes; his reinforcements wouldn't make it in time.
Finally, after the fifth minute, Mordred drove her sword through the enemy commander's neck.
Mordred let out a breath. She won.
Even if it wasn't Alger Merns that she had defeated, surely a commander of an army would still give her a large merit?
It was with this thought that she opened her mouth and raised her voice for all to hear.
"The commander is dead!" She yelled out. Her voice was all the encouragement Palamid needed to press fully into the attack.
Palamid immediately led his army to destroy the western Saxon flank as Shirou and Mordred had already disrupted the eastern flank.
The area immediately erupted into chaos.
Mordred slowly felt the adrenaline leave her after her shouts of excitement. After all, there was now a problem neither she or Shirou could ignore.
Mordred's eyes dilated as she gripped tightly onto her sword. The feelings of euphoria and joy at bringing down the enemy commander were soon replaced by a grim astonishment.
As she and Shirou had caught the enemy by surprise and cut a line directly through the enemy forces, they found themselves at an impasse. Besieged on all sides, they stood at the heart of the Saxon forces with the path that they had carved out with sweat and blood disappearing as surely as water filling a depression in a marshland.
Palamid was already pressing the enemy on the opposite flank and effectively routing them by dividing their numbers. Panicked and disorientated, only death would await. Therefore, retreat was the only option, and it wasn't that the Saxons didn't want to, it was that they couldn't. The outcome of the current battle mattered too much and unless pushed into helplessness, they wouldn't cease hostilities. It wasn't as if Alger was a man that tolerated failure.
With the death of the field commander, more and more Saxons were yelling out instructions to bring the distressed army to order. They were the lieutenants and leaders of smaller units of troops that acted as army officials. Steadily, the Saxons were reorganizing their chain of command.
"T-They aren't retreating," Mordred whispered solemnly. It was hard for her to accept the current reality. She had acted recklessly numerous times before and plunged directly into the heart of her opposition, but none of her earlier skirmishes could compare to the current scale of the war.
There was one of her, one of Shirou, and nearly two-thousand enemies standing in opposition.
It was only after considering her current position that Mordred realized that she may have had been too naïve about how war worked.
She hardened the grip around her sword and prepared herself.
Shirou merely nodded at Mordred's words. He didn't have much confidence in taking on an entire army, but with his physical strength alone, he was certain that he could deal with a few hundred before he himself tired out. Which in hindsight, wasn't going to do much against several thousand. Even ants could take down giants if enough of them started biting.
The reason that he and Mordred had been able to pierce through the Saxon army before was because the Saxons were unprepared. Now though, they thoroughly fortified themselves under the orders of the remaining officers.
If he and Mordred just simply tried to fight without any plans, only death would await.
Mordred was standing stock still beside him, her breathing coming out in pants. She didn't show it, but she must have already exhausted herself in her initial warpath to eliminate the enemy commander.
Forcing her to fight now meant death.
He couldn't allow it.
No. He couldn't tolerate it.
Mordred's face surfaced in his thoughts, pale, and bleeding.
The image set his mind on fire as another face superimposed over Mordred's. One that he instinctively wanted to protect at all costs, and it was at that point that something snapped within him.
The heat of magic.
His blood began to pump violently, like the ebbing of the ocean tide kicking into high gear.
The reaction of Twenty-Seven dormant Magic Circuits evolved from bathing in the blood of a Dragon becoming something more.
A factory of potent magical energy thrumming to life.
A Magic Core ignited.
The pitter patter of the rain struck against his skin, the numbing cold a stark contrast to the heat exuding from within his body. His breathing was getting more ragged and drawn out, the exhales of his breath producing heavy clouds of condensed water vapour that soon began to form a mist around him. The mist didn't originate fully from his breath, but even from his exposed skin as droplets of rain evaporated on contact.
He didn't understand it fully, about what was happening, but all those things could wait.
Because in the present moment, he acted by instinct.
"Trace, On." Tendrils of blue magical light erupted from his hammer.
Thunder boomed across the sky.
Wind.
Rain.
And the crackle of lightning writhing like snakes amidst the clouds.
Interface patterns illuminated the sides of his hammer resembling blue runes that buzzed with a dull sound.
"S-Shirou you-" Mordred staggered back, tendrils of magical energy striking the ground and forcing her to shield herself.
Shirou had no time to explain anything.
"GO!" He yelled, hurling his hammer outwards.
At the same time, he pushed Mordred directly onto the path his hammer was opening through the Saxon lines.
Dazed, Mordred stood still before she finally came to her senses and began running.
Mordred soon hesitated, but Shirou would have none of it. "I said I'd be you're shield so TRUST ME!" he yelled.
Mordred pursed her lips and held back the emotions within her. The care and concern she could hear in Shirou's voice connected with her in a way that was impossible to describe.
She clenched her fists and ran.
"Go Mordred, don't look back and just keep going forward!"
Shirou's voice was faint, almost like it was distant, but Mordred hardly noticed as she focused on the path ahead. Eventually, she escaped the Saxon encirclement.
"W-We made it," she said panting.
No one answered her.
An ill premonition assailed her.
Mordred turned around and realized that she was alone, the figure of the blacksmith having not once left his original position. Her eyes dilated. No. NO she didn't want this. They were supposed to get out together!
Mordred nearly charged straight back in from where she had come from but as if sensing her intentions, Shirou glared at her from his position. She paused in her steps, biting down on her lips before standing still in shock.
Shirou was the one thing keeping the Saxons from immediately attacking. He couldn't allow himself to move as he held their attention with a riveting demeanour. The storm above seemed to center around him alone; bolt after bolt of lightning striking down towards the hammer that returned to his right hand, creating coils of writhing light.
His hammer was tailor-made to match his superior physical condition. Not only was it heavy, but it was exceedingly dense as a result, attracting lightning above like a lightning rod.
The entire scene fell within the eyes of the Saxon army and even those stationed within the fort.
It acted as a catalyst.
Faith acting as the foundation for a legend.
All Noble Phantasms were Crystalized Legends and all legends had their beginnings.
There was power in thought and belief.
A conceptualized weapon.
The hammer in Shirou's hand slowly became that which the Saxons thought it to be. It wasn't a traced weapon but something derived from accumulated faith and belief.
It was the birth of a new Noble Phantasm.
One that was still too weak to be ranked, but nonetheless possessed an otherworldly aura and grace attributed to something of its stature.
A mighty Nordic Hammer of myth.
Bringer of Wind, of Rain, of Thunder, and Lightning.
The hammer in Shirou's hands was steadily transforming, a legend crystallizing into reality utilizing the imagination of humans.
It didn't matter if it was a real Noble Phantasm or not. What mattered was what the hammer was perceived as in the eyes of all.
A bolt of lightning struck down, illuminating the area in numerous arcs of electricity.
The weapon of Thor, Norse God of Thunder.
Mjolnir.
Author's note: Contrary to belief, I have been reading the reviews people have been writing, and I understand where all the concern is coming from. It's my fault for not replying to comments sooner, so the most I can do is do so now.
The context of complaint I can understand that everyone is talking about is the Kingdom building aspects of Arturia and Shirou creating a different Camelot. The answer to that is that they still are. There's not one point where I have said that Camelot has already been created and in regards to concerns relating to Guinevere, things that occurred with her are going to be a bit different.
What I can say is happening right now in the story is that Arturia is still in the midst of combating the Saxons as King Arthur in the early periods of her reign where her support is strong in some and still weak in others. I don't want to spoil anything, so I won't go further in-depth, but there's a reason I had to include Mordred and this Arc. I need them for the planned ending I have for the story.
Thanks for reading, and thanks to all of you out there for the support! It's been hard juggling everything around between my final two years in University, writing, and life in general, but I always find the time to write because its one of my passions and hobbies. More than that, my goal is to one day finish all the stories I've written.
Thanks again to everyone and I'm sorry for any disappointments. All I can do is give my best and keep walking forward.
P a treon. com (slash) Parcasious