Fuyuki City.
The first thing he saw was the fire.
It was everywhere. The buildings, the trees, earth and sky. None was safe from the fiery tongues. In the hellish moment, infernos swallowed the entire world… or at least that's how the little boy's mind comprehended the heat and madness.
Not even the living, those that could run, were safe. The fires that burned through the buildings and streets had also trapped many, charring away into feeble human bodies as they did the metal beams and blackened concrete.
Screams for help filled the night. Wailing, crying, despair, all of them a chorus and horror perpetrated by the crackling of the hungry pyre. He shut it out. He forced himself to silence them all… all an attempt to preserve what sanity he had left. Even if it meant abandoning them all… he had to move, to escape. Thus, he marched, ignoring the rasps, the tears, the moans of the suffering and dying.
The only thing that kept him going, that accompanied his desperate trek through hell, was the heat of the flames and the thumping within. Was it the beating of his heart? His rage and frustration? Or was it just the instinctual urge to survive? The boy's footsteps didn't know. Nor could he even consider anything else. This child, the only one who was spared, was only able to by sheer luck.
Alone. Realization slowly but surely dawned on him through willpower that he was alone.
His amber eyes were dull at first, numbed by the haze that burned his lungs and skin. Then, it filled with horror the next. Panic and confusion on what to do, where to go and where his family had gone to. They wouldn't leave him, yet… he didn't know where they'd gone. The child couldn't understand how they'd been separated—couldn't remember…
It didn't matter. He forced himself to, and soon, he found his answer. Amber eyes sought to look past the orange haze and smoke, becoming hollow yet desperate all the same.
His trekking turned into a march, then into an anguished jog as his muscles strained, already at their limit. Not knowing what to do, unable to save those whom the fire didn't spare, he hoped against hope that at least someone survived!
But… eventually, the fire stopped… He managed to breach the fiery border and escape into a blackened landscape. The air was still warm behind him, but his fore was hit by an icy breeze. He'd done it! He'd escaped the flames! And yet… the boy didn't see any survivors. All he saw… was the aftermath of hell.
Ruins and rubble, cracked and broken. Asphalt and streetlamps bent and burned. Human remains… ashen… unmoving. Nay. Some still moved. But the pained cries they might've let out were muted. Silenced, they were, by the fires that took away everything except their lives. Of course, it wouldn't take long before theirs were forfeit regardless.
The child collapsed amidst a pile, tired, shattered. All he could do was watch as the smoke-filled skies started to turn cloudy and wet. The rain had started to set in. As though the world itself was crying, a downpour of tears fell over him. But… he couldn't even cry out. He could barely even reach out.
Then… a man clasped his hand.
There, appearing from his barely fading periphery, an old man about his father's age appeared. He smiled, exhausted, and cried, but in joy. A beautiful smile, happy to see at least one soul alive, instilled something, a grand emotion to well up within the child.
"You're alive!" he heard the man say. "At least… one is alive! Thank you… Thank you…"
Why would he thank him… for being alive? Why was he happy… that at least the child lived? The boy didn't know. Nor could he understand at the time.
'Why…'
Yet, he envied that man's smile. More so, especially because the man looked like he had been saved. Not him, the child. Shirou envied him…
'Why…?'
To be saved… by saving others… Such a simple thing… yet also not. He envied him… but he also admired him.
'Why…?'
He admired the man… for he could live with himself. Unlike the boy who'd lived through that hell.
'Why did you survive when everyone else died?!'
***
Shirou awoke with wide eyes and deep breaths.
Wet streaks ran down the sides of his face. He dreamed about that night, again.
It had been happening ever since, but the kid couldn't get used to it. Never knowing when his nightmare will end with wallowing feelings of regret or a small spark of hope… it wasn't healthy. To the latter, he'd wake up easy, wistful even. But to the former, Shirou often awoke trembling. Sometimes screaming. Kiritsugu managed to stave off his unease as best as he could, but only until the little boy would fall asleep again. Whether he would wake up differently after was another random chance.
Still, with his night terrors taking a more mixed approach this time around, Shirou managed to wake calmer and tried to relax himself. It wasn't easy, but he remembered the training his father taught him.
"Inhale… exhale. Inhale… exhale." Shirou repeated it several times until his thoughts drifted away from the nightmare.
He paused after for a minute. Now that he wasn't panicking, Shirou thought about going back to bed, before glancing at the nearby window and noticing that the sun was up already. It was already morning, and yet Shirou didn't hear the sounds of TV or Kiritsugu's attempt to cook something edible.
His foster father had been trying his best to take care of a seven-year-old child, but what amounted to his best meals were more bland barely-palatable rations. Not to say they couldn't be eaten. It was just… well, bad.
But to not hear any bustling in the home this early, Shirou felt something off as he walked out of his room and moved towards the kitchen. If it was nothing but the dream playing with his instincts, he could start preparing breakfast for the family of two. Relying on his father to not ruin meals was a foolish notion. And eating just junk food Kiritsugu brought wasn't a good idea either. Even a kid like Shirou could see that as a bad way to live.
Small footsteps against the cold hardwood floor thumped away.
The Emiya home was a quiet big place just for two residents. The large old Japanese-style building felt like a real fortress for the little boy at first, but after living there for a month Shirou got used to its homely feel. High walls but open air. Sliding doors that made gentle clacks when they were opened. Floorboards that made soft thumps with every step. Truly, it felt more like a vacation house than a family residence.
The place became familiar as he helped to rebuild it. Seemingly, Kiritsugu was not only a terrible cook but also a bad homeowner. What with half the lot looking like a gas canister blew up a shed and sent concrete shrapnel everywhere. When Shirou first arrived, he couldn't help but think the place had hosted an action movie's explosion stunt. That or survived a war or something for the dilapidated state it was in.
And that was despite being untouched by the fire.
Kiritsugu had said nothing of what happened there. Other than being evasive about it, he wasn't of great help rebuilding either. He looked more forlorn as he watched the workers replace what they could bit by bit. At least those big guys with tattoos that did the job, even allowing a kid like Shirou to help, were really nice and understanding.
Shirou sighed, sparing a nostalgic glance out the window before his attention returned to the present. Reminiscing about the past when it was barely a few months back made him feel a little older. Or maybe he was just worn out. Either or, when he was about to enter the kitchen, he stiffened.
There, just inside the room, Kiritsugu was up and about. But it was what he was doing that had Shirou holding his breath.
On one of the man's arms was a long gash, likely a result of mishandling a knife, which continued to drip down his elbow. In the other, a piece of paper with strange markings on it. Had it been a bandage, Shirou would think nothing of it. But on the parchment were writings written with blood. The very same that nearly dripped on the floor.
But when Kiritsugu slapped the paper on his wound and uttered something, the boy could only watch intently.
Fire erupted from the paper. Not regular flames like that of a campfire. Not a blaze akin to the one from weeks back, no. Instead, it glowed blue and barely carried any heat. A tender caress of flames that licked Kiritsugu's skin, gently, softly fading away to reveal a woundless arm coupled with the absence of any blood.
The injury that was once there had vanished, replaced by healthy skin and an old man's satisfied, if a little resigned, sigh.
The scene alone was like something out of a cartoon or fantasy show. No, it was—
"Magic?" Shirou muttered without thinking.