Several hours after the graveyard battle, the exhausted Masters were seeing their tenth dream. Rin had suffered magical depletion, so rest was vital for her, while Shirou was depleted more mentally. Outwardly it didn't show, but he'd died, become Master of some hitherto unknown ritual, and run through the Forest from his "little sister's" deadly familiars. And her existence didn't leave the youth calm. In summary, Emiya had crammed a five-year plan into one day, armed only with rusty rakes. Though the Tohsaka heiress wasn't far behind, so both deserved a chance to recover. Their Servants, needing no sleep, now vigilantly guarded the Emiya Estate grounds.
It had become their refuge for one reason: the Tohsaka estate was warded with powerful protective spells that wouldn't admit Saber. A major magical source without clearance was attacked without delay, turning the house into an impregnable fortress. All well and good—the lady of the house was with them—but she'd lost consciousness almost immediately after Berserker fled, managing only to answer the Primarch's questions. Though she herself had a day's worth of questions. The problem was her Servant would answer few. He shared details of his past—or future, depending on perspective—with great reluctance. His height alone said volumes. Three and a half meters—the approximate height of Shirou's house. Fortunately, he could revert to his prior state; otherwise, hiding this… giant would have been tricky.
Said giant was currently on the veranda. Sitting on the wooden floor, he leisurely leafed through a book borrowed from Shirou. Like a thermos. Which stood nearby, exuding a sweet aroma. At one point, a tiny bug flew into the "Venus flytrap." Though Artoria was too beautiful to compare to an insect. After confirming the Masters slept soundly, the girl had wanted to follow suit, but one riddle kept her awake. She headed toward it. The tea aroma had nothing to do with it.
Catching Saber from the corner of his eye, Fulgrim inwardly chuckled. The girl maintained a stoic facade, but not her nose—it twitched nonstop. "Hm, with her self-control, no tea should provoke such a reaction. What makes this one special?" The Primarch had no clues, but this couldn't be coincidence. Time to seek new patterns. Meanwhile, the girl sat nearby—not too close—and kept glancing at the container. Fulgrim found the scene amusing, clearly seeing her inner struggle against showing weakness and asking for some. But Fulgrim wasn't heartless, so with a gesture, he indicated he didn't mind… after a couple minutes.
The warrior's hand slowly reached for the thermos—a struggle, but she managed. Now she savored the finest tea she'd ever tasted. Under the waning moon's light, amid the quiet estate, this night brought peace. Two heroes—one from the future, one from the past—silently enjoyed the leaves rustling in the gentle breeze. Both rarely had such time, so they cherished the moment like no other. Especially the Primarch; places like this seldom offered him peaceful respite. It only heightened his awe for the starry night's beauty. Once, he'd sought beauty in the lofty: masterpieces of music, painting, architecture, sculpture. But now he couldn't tear his gaze from this simple scene. So mundane, unimpressive—yet captivating. And the pleasant company of a lovely lady amplified it. Speaking of her, she'd finished her tea and now gazed thoughtfully at the man, distraction gone. Clearly, recent events troubled her. No surprise.
"Curious?" In a benevolent mood, Fulgrim smiled sincerely. "Want to know who I am?"
Artoria started slightly at the unexpected question shattering the silence, a short strand of hair on her head standing on end for a moment. The Primarch hadn't noted it before, but this lock never fell even in battle. Some unknown force held it. When its owner regained calm, it resumed its place. "How… unusual," Fulgrim thought.
"Right, you're a very… strange Servant." The ease with which the man had beaten Berserker astounded. It wasn't even a battle—an extermination. Heracles was among the strongest Servants summonable in the war. And Mad Enhancement made him deadlier.
"Ha-ha, I'll take that as a compliment." The Primarch gazed at the stars, so close, so familiar. "Recalling my past… from a certain point… isn't pleasant. But since you're curious. I am one of twenty sons of the man who led humanity to light in its darkest hour. One who stood beneath his banner."
Next, Fulgrim briefly recounted his era. News of the coming future deeply affected Artoria. First, human civilization's spread across the galaxy, then the dark night, unification wars on Terra, and finally the Great Crusade. The events' scale boggled the mind. And the man began his personal history.
"When the Primarchs were scattered across worlds, I landed on a dying planet. Food and clean water were severely limited; every resident struggled to survive. Those unable to work were disposed of—extra mouths weren't allowed." To Artoria, this seemed barbaric; even in her homeland's hungriest, darkest times, people hadn't stooped so low, save rare exceptions.
"My capsule crashed in the wastes, found by Callax guards, the planet's largest city's. Chemos, it was called. Orphans like me were usually killed, but my future adoptive father decided otherwise. He sensed I wasn't ordinary and raised me, defying his world's realities." The girl listened intently; she'd never heard such an incredible tale.
"Where I landed, a pure water source burst forth—Chemos's most precious resource. That's why they named me. After an ancient myth-god who released ocean waters, turning the planet into a blooming paradise. Fulgrim—Water-Bringer."
Next, the Primarch briefly described his childhood and youth. When Artoria learned he'd been a miner, her face took on a hilariously baffled expression; Fulgrim couldn't hold back laughter. He understood picturing him in a dusty mine with a jackhammer was hard. Later he became an engineer, realizing his homeworld's dire straits. Repairing and improving equipment brought light back to people's lives. Factories began producing more than Chemos's inhabitants could consume.
"It took me about fifty years to restore the planet, earning my moniker—the Phoenician. For I reborn the world from the ash covering it edge to edge. By then, I ruled Chemos." Artoria's brows rose in surprise—a major shock. In her time, world domination seemed mad fantasy for power-hungry fools. Like that infamous Alexander the Great. "Don't be so surprised; nearly all my brothers achieved the same. Our nature draws loyal people."
"When my subjects finally had time beyond survival, I restored art and culture. They'd long fascinated me; enriching their spirits was my duty. I dabbled in fencing, poetry, music, sculpture, choreography. Mm, what's that?" After the last, Artoria's lock froze, as did her body.
"You… danced?" Fulgrim couldn't grasp the shock; nothing wrong with dancing. Was it odd? "But you're so… big." When she finished, the Primarch laughed again—that was the reason.
"No, no, just theory. You're right; finding a practice partner was tricky. Not like I'd ask brothers." Saying the last, the man grew a bit embarrassed. Two dancing Primarchs—no sight for living or dead. "Come to think, I've never shared a dance with anyone…" Here Fulgrim eyed his interlocutor intently. She grasped his thought at once.
"Don't even think it—that's a bad idea." The Queen tensed. But her objections were ignored; his hand was already extended. She didn't rush to accept, keeping a stoic face.
"Forgot I saved your life? Agree, and I'll consider the debt paid." Sly tactic. Knightly honor demanded repaying a life debt, even against it, freezing her body again. She wrestled reluctance. At court, she'd often danced with ladies—position required it. But never with a man. The idea embarrassed. Despite her composure, she had zero experience with opposite sex outside comrades and vassals. Yet still…
"A dance with a lady can't be a bad idea." Fulgrim spoke, leading said lady by the hand.
The estate garden became their venue. Not ideal, but it let Fulgrim share a dance for the first time. When his body hadn't outgrown humans, other interests occupied him; later, he grew too much. What point in dancing if your partner barely reached your waist?
"We don't even have music." Artoria had agreed, but wasn't thrilled.
"Easily fixed."
The Primarch hummed a light melody. His voice perfectly pitched, ear honed by years of art. One hand at her waist, the other holding her palm, he began slow steps. Simplest waltz—unfading over millennia—his choice. Artoria, still flustered, placed her free hand on his forearm. They whirled in dance. Both skilled enough for no missteps. Under quiet moonlight, heroes from past and future, fates complex. Only the unhurried song echoed, turning night magical. Their personal miracle.
Early morning, Shirou opened his eyes. Sleep lingered, thoughts disjointed. Habitual early rising played a cruel trick now. Fortunately Saturday—no school worries. Rising from the futon, he shuffled to the Bathroom, recalling a bizarre dream. Such nonsense he hadn't seen in ages. Though better than his recurring past nightmare, decade-old. Heading to the Kitchen for breakfast, he noted the light on. "Sakura doesn't come weekends, and Fuji-nee not this early." Only entering did he realize the dream wasn't a dream.
The platinum-haired man cooked at the Stove, apronless, unconcerned about staining his white Shirt. Emiya's expert eye noted his hands moved fast yet precise. Aromas filling the room showed solid cooking skills. At the low Table sat a blonde girl with teacup in hand. Utterly relaxed, nothing fazed her.
"Uh… good morning?" Shirou didn't know what to say.
"Good morning." The man replied.
"Good morning, Shirou." The girl echoed.
Flummoxed how to react, the youth sat at the Table, mind racing. Nothing disturbed him; room quiet save faint oil sizzle, dish clinks. Saber's drink ran out; turning her head, a new cup flew her way—speed and arc perfect to avoid spilling. She caught it, guiding her hand to brake inertia. Now she had more to drink, transfer flawless. Poor youth more confused by the sight.
Fifteen minutes later, plates of light European breakfast appeared: herb Omelet, juice, jam toasts. When Shirou reflexively reached, Fulgrim stopped him— not everyone gathered yet. Indeed, four servings. Shirou realized Tohsaka was in the dream too. Her Servant asked him to wake her Master while finishing touches. Shirou complied, heading to Rin's room. Estate just him, so empty room easy last night.
Sliding door open, he saw the girl curled up. Her peaceful face made Emiya's heart twinge at disturbing it. But no choice; longer delay, longer no breakfast. Squatting quietly beside, he called to Tohsaka softly. No response—she buried face deeper in pillow. He sat thus five minutes. Could shake shoulder, but touching sleeping Tohsaka seemed too embarrassing.
Fulgrim, having washed cooking dishes and sitting with Artoria, clearly heard her Master's efforts. Foolishness, in a word. Sighing faintly, the Primarch—who once unified a world with seven legionaries—went on his current mission. Help schoolboy wake schoolgirl. Saber, hearing Shirou's vain calls, grasped Fulgrim's intent wordlessly. She'd have gone herself—food cooling! Disrespect to cook. And hunger enemy to fight swiftly.
En route, Fulgrim heard Tohsaka finally speak, followed by scuffle, thud of fall. Lamenting his tasks again, he opened door. Scene baffling: youth hands on floor, girl between. Wide eyes locked, faces reddening by second. Gibberish poured from Emiya's mouth—likely excuses—while "victim," face flushed, silent. Ten seconds. Twenty. Pair oblivious to third presence. But man tired waiting for youth to notice, so made them.
"Rin, breakfast ready." Both whipped heads at voice, blushing harder. Shirou finally clambered off; she tried decent pose.
"A-a-and how long you here?"
"About a minute."
"Just stood silent?" Confirming nod shifted embarrassment to irritation. Servant watched her shameful position. "Couldn't say sooner?"
"Curious how long you'd last."
"Fulgrim… I'll hang a bell on your neck!"
Man just smirked. Curious to see attempts. But food cooling, Artoria hungry. Both unacceptable; he announced, returned to Living room sans reply. Pair alone seconds till Rin shoved Shirou out. In Corridor, youth puzzled how he fell atop Tohsaka retreating when she woke. Magic? Movements unnatural, like force willed it. Ahem, what could it be?
Finally alone, Rin composed after odd dream. Because of it, she'd frozen under Shirou. Vague images, incomprehensible. Disjointed, jumping moments. First, wasteland. Nothing could grow in dead lands. Sky smoke-shrouded, like fire. No light pierced filthy clouds. Moment later, fiery comet streaked sky, crashing afar. Its glow briefly lit hopeless dark.
Next, splendid city. Architecture awe-inspiring, monumental vaults spoke strength, resilience of owners. Streets rang with children's laughter; smiling folk. Each smile recalled her Servant's irritating habit—always wearing one. Suddenly, myriad ships emerged from azure sky borders, sci-fi style. Landing, disgorged giants. Gold-armored, bearing banners fluttering like double-headed eagles embroidered thereon.
After that, the scene shifted to a spacious room where even these giants felt comfortable. It was unusual that the point of view no longer moved and seemed to belong to some person. Rin was finally convinced of this when the one who had made an indelible impression emerged from the ranks of the golden guards. She couldn't make out his face, or even his body, but with her entire being she sensed how... perfect the being that appeared before her was. She felt how the one who had granted her sight knelt wordlessly. The golden light emanating from the figure warmed and gave complete confidence that its rays would never fade. That darkness would never triumph in the struggle against this light. The wizard, even in her sleep, realized that this light was the light of hope for all humanity. As soon as this thought entered her mind, it became clear who was before her. The man who had once again given humanity a future. The one who could extinguish and ignite stars with a wave of his hand. Master of Mankind.
The dream ended there, and Shirou's face, after the greatest of men, seemed utterly mundane. Of course, it was impossible not to be flustered in such a situation, but in any other circumstance, the young man would already have been punched in the face. And not a slap. Slightly composing herself, the girl headed toward the place where her Servant was. Her thoughts were still far away. Now that she herself had seen Fulgrim's father, she understood why he spoke of him with such exaltation. It couldn't be any other way.
Entering the kitchen, the wizard saw people sitting at the table. Shirou was still flushed crimson with embarrassment. Wishing everyone good morning, Rin sat down at the only free spot and, without saying another word, began to eat. But it wasn't food occupying her thoughts. She wanted to know how the son of such a man could lose what he fought for. The golden glow had not faded from the wizard's mind even now. It had imprinted itself so deeply that she saw his figure whenever she closed her eyes. And this was from the vision of her Servant's past. What happened to people when they saw the Emperor in person was hard to imagine.
Rin snapped out of her reverie and realized she was trying to eat from an empty plate. It seemed she hadn't even noticed when breakfast ended. And now everyone was looking at her strangely. Well, not everyone—just Shirou. Her behavior seemed strange to him, so he wanted to make sure she was okay, but the recent incident had firmly shut his mouth. The Primarch paid no attention to the girl's condition, though he had noticed it. At the moment, he was intently staring at what interested him most. The lock of hair on Saber's head. This phenomenon aroused the greatest interest. Its owner was now devouring a second serving, which the man had given her when he realized she wanted more but didn't wish to show it. Fulgrim's gaze didn't bother her, and it should have. In one moment, a hand unexpectedly smoothed the unruly strand.
It merely returned to its fellows for a moment, only to tense up, like the entire body of the warrior woman. She slowly turned her gaze to the Primarch, and it was murderous. The target understood this and raised her hands in a conciliatory gesture of submission. For a few more seconds, Artoria debated whether to pardon the offender, and finally decided that he didn't deserve death for such a thing. As if nothing had happened, she returned to her food. Only to be attacked again.
Fulgrim made another futile attempt to fix the girl's hairstyle, but to no avail. The lock didn't just tense—it stood on end and even began to tremble, while an invisible blade appeared in the warrior woman's hand. The whirls of air were fiercer than usual, as if they had taken on echoes of their owner's mood.
"Pray."
"Wait a minute, Arti, are you really going to cut me down for such a trifle... Arti?" Further conversation was cut short by a lightning-fast attack. Which soon turned into a chase, with Saber trying to catch and punish Archer. All within the framework of the Holy Grail War, one could say. And Rin, left in the living room, voiced aloud a thought that the Shirou sitting beside her couldn't understand.
"And he is His son?"
***
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