Chapter 2: Fragments of Someone Else's Future
The world was a gray, soaked canvas. The rain, the same rain that had been scarce during the days of sun and scorching heat, now fell with unleashed fury, as if the sky were weeping for the tragedy it had witnessed
PITTER-PATTER, pit-pat
The constant sound of drops hitting the distant charred remains of a part of the city was the only accompaniment to the heavy stillness that enveloped Shirou
Inside the room, the silence was almost absolute. Only the faint hum of some switched-off electronic device and the monotonous rhythm of the rain against the glass. Shirou could smell the antiseptic that permeated the air, mixed with a faint scent of new bandages and something more… of institutionalized loneliness
The bed was far too large for her small frame. The sheets, rough and sterile, brushed against her skin with a coldness that had nothing to do with the temperature. With each breath, she felt a slight tug in her side, a phantom of pain where a severe burn had once been. Her body remembered what her mind could barely comprehend.
She looked at her hands on the sheets. Her palms were clean, without a trace of the blisters that, she'd been told, had covered her skin days before. She slowly flexed her fingers, watching the movement with a distant curiosity, as if those limbs belonged to someone else, before turning her gaze away from the window.
It was ironic, he thought without really thinking, that just when hell had broken loose on earth, water decided to appear. As if the world, after being consumed by fire, desperately sought to purify itself, to wash away the ashes and the stench of death. But for him, that water brought no comfort, it only reflected the devastation and the coldness he now felt inside himself
His gaze, previously fixed on the horizon through the hospital window, focused on his own reflection. Shirou sat, reflecting on what had happened just minutes before he woke up.
Kiritsugu Emiya—that's how the man who rescued him from the fire introduced himself— was the first to notice he was awake. According to the nurses, he hadn't left his side except for the most essential things.
Shirou had flashes of his presence during those days of unconsciousness: the sound of a chair being gently dragged closer to his bed, the rustling of pages in a book that was never finished. Kiritsugu didn't talk much. When he did, his voice was a low, grave murmur, always asking the nurses for technical details: epithelial regeneration rates, white blood cell levels, signs of secondary infection.
But what Shirou remembered most, even in his comatose state, was the man's gaze. It didn't feel like the gentle, concerned gaze of others. It was asurveillance Kiritsugu observed every movement, every change on the monitors, every adjustment to the IV drip, with the intensity of a strategist assessing a battlefield. Sometimes, when no one was there to see him, his eyes would wander to the gray horizon beyond the window, and in them one could read an internal equation of guilt and unfathomable calculation.
I caught a glimpse of a young nurse's voice, her tone a mix of admiration and compassion— That man hasn't slept three nights in a row. All he does is stare at you, as if he's afraid you'll disappear if he blinks—
He was also the one who explained what happened: A sudden fire in the middle of the night, in which both Shirou and the rest of the residents of that sector of Fuyuki barely had time to get out of their homes before being consumed by the flames.
It was one miracle after another, they told him. To survive, and for his injuries—second-and third-degree burns, and even rumors of fourth-degree burns that healed in days—not to be fatal. He had been in a coma for a week, waking up almost unharmed.
Then they tried to ask him his name. Only one word came to mind: Shirou. A name he recognized as his own, but at the same time, he didn't.
'And now this…'
A small hand rested on her reflection in the glass
'This childlike face… these opaque amber eyes… This hair as white as an old man's… Nothing belongs to me. But then again, I don't remember ever having anything else.'
The alienation between his reflection and what his brain vehemently denied was a feverish paradox that stifled any other thought.
Nor could he not remember his past before the fire?
Nor his wounds had disappeared
Only in this particular detail
'Who am I?'
'What is my name?'
'Am I really Shirou—?'
His train of thought broke as a memory surfaced, a detail that only now, after hearing the names one after the other—Shirou and Kiritsugu Emiya—made sense
Shirou Emiya
'Is this my name?... No. That man didn't acknowledge me as family. I can't have his surname.'
'But... why does it sound so familiar?'
Her gaze, filled with doubt, returned to the reflection. This time she focused on only two things: her hair and eyes.
I imagine them in different colors. She tried combinations, searching for something that would fit into her fragmented mind. Until she found the right one: coppery-red hair, dull golden eyes
—Argh!— he suddenly shouted, attracting Kiritsugu's attention, who waiting outside
—Shirou, what's wrong?!— he heard, but the voice sounded distant
He hadn't expected that, at that moment of realization, a sharp pain would drill into his skull
It was like the click of a jammed lock finally giving way, or the breaking of a dam. Information—memories?—flowed toward or from his brain in an uncontrollable torrent
'Images of an indistinct young man in front of a screen
A red-haired, adult version of him, in animated style, being pierced by a crimson spear
Kiritsugu taking his hand and calling him "son"
A dark silhouette in the rain, the gleam of a telescopic sight reflecting the longing for an impossible ideal
The cold metal of a sword in his hands, followed instantly by the sticky heat of his own blood
Two sisters with different last names and hair colors having dinner with him in peace
The taste of dust and rust in his mouth as he shouted the name of a girl with braids
The sweet, enveloping whisper of a young woman with purple hair, whose
Two wars of the same origin—one, the cause of their current misfortune; the other, a future agony
A battle between two versions of himself: one idealistic, the other worn down by cruel fate
The fleeting echo of a song: "I am the bone of my sword, steel is my body and fire is my blood…" resonating in a void of broken promises
A white horse in a thunderstorm, and the image of a desolate king, bearing the weight of a kingdom
The beautiful scene of a young aspiring hero summoning a knight maiden
That same maiden, fighting alongside a woman with white hair and red eyes. And at the same time, that maiden was arguing with a cold-eyed Kiritsugu
The smell of corrupted magic, of something rotten and ancient, floating in the air like an invisible plague
Finally, a grail vomiting black mud, and behind it, a man in golden armor with a cruel smile:
— Die, you filthy mongrel!'
They were memories that didn't fit together, scenes from a film whose script had been cut and reassembled at random. Some had the grainy texture of a dream; others, the cruel and detailed definition of a traumatic memory. In all of them, one constant: He was the center But never the same. Sometimes he was a child, other times a wounded teenager, other times a weary woman with silver eyes. The only consistency was the recurring presence of the same faces: Kiritsugu's, younger but equally worn; the knightly maiden's, with an ancient sadness in her green eyes; the sisters', one sweet and helpful, the other impertinent but kind; and the golden man's, whose laughter echoed with a gigantic pride.
— Ou… irou… Shirou!, Can you hear me, boy!
—D-doctor?
—Haa… Thank goodness. You scared me.
Shirou looked around, confused. The pain was fading. He saw several nurses, a doctor, and Kiritsugu—his face tense with worry—monitoring him, checking his vital signs
— What's wrong? You should tell us,— said the doctor, taking out a small Slit lamp for a quick eye exam— You screamed in pain, clutching your head. How are you feeling now? Is the pain still there?
— N-no, it hardly hurts anymore
— Okay, it doesn't look like neurological damage, but a routine X-ray… Do you have any idea what caused it? Mr. Emiya said you were fine until that moment
Shirou turned his gaze back to Kiritsugu. The curiosity and concern in the man's eyes grew in equal measure. The scenes flashed through his mind, seeming more like an absurd prophecy than memories.
He wanted to tell him. But he couldn't, not with everyone listening. Kiritsugu, alert as always, noticed his distress and asked for a moment alone with him.
— Well?— Kiritsugu asked, once the room had fallen silent. His voice, a little hoarse, had a tone that was meant to be calming— Do you have something to tell me?
— Yes… I remembered something. But no… it didn't seem like a memory… — Shirou took a Hand to temple, speaking cautiously, as if he didn't trust his own words—These were things that haven't happened yet… things I shouldn't know
His eyes, glazed with fear, locked onto Kiritsugu's.
— I saw myself… with red hair and golden eyes. Fighting in a war. There was a blonde girl in armor… Seven Masters and seven Servants killing each other. And you… I saw you next to that same girl in another war very similar to mine. Then… you found me. You adopted me. And then… pain. So much pain. My heart pierced, my body cut open. I screamed and begged, I fought and fell, and I got up only to fall again, and my body… was full of swords, so many swords that—!
The cascade of hysterical words abruptly stopped.
Not with a shout, but with an abrupt silence as Kiritsugu's arms encircled him. It wasn't a tight hug, but a firm one, a restraint that shut out the world. Shirou felt the rough fabric of the man's jacket against his cheek, the scent of tobacco and sleeplessness.
— That's enough, — Kiritsugu murmured, his voice not soft, but firm. It was the A soldier, seeing a comrade about to break down, orders: — Breathe. Just breathe. —
Shirou's body, taut as a bow, suddenly gave way. A tremor ran through him, followed by such profound exhaustion that tears flowed silently. soaking Kiritsugu's jacket. They weren't tears of physical pain, but of fear of an impossible future he had already seen unfold.
— Sleep, — Kiritsugu said, and his large, calloused hand rested on his hair. The child's whites— Now he sleeps. I'm here.
It wasn't a spell, but the final collapse of adrenaline and the overwhelming fatigue of a weary soul. Shirou's eyelids, heavy as lead, closed. The last sensation was the constant pressure of those arms around him, an anchor in the maelstrom of his visions.
The silence, broken only by the rain, filled the room once more. Kiritsugu didn't let go. He stared out the window at the gray sky, and in his eyes, for a moment, there was not relief, but a cold, familiar determination. Something in the boy's torrent of words had triggered an ancient alarm within him.
[IMG Shirou]