fic: wasteland (archer-centric, rated r)
Title: Wasteland
Author: sinemoras09
Characters: Archer
Rating: R
Word count: 1400
Summary: Archer in the wasteland. Warnings for graphic depictions of hanging and attempted suicide. Pre-UBW. No spoilers.
----
O ye who pass by my way, look and see if there is sorrow like my sorrow.
- Lamentations 1:12
*****
They force him up the steps. Neck bowed, hands tied behind his back, the last thing Shirou sees are the heavy wooden steps leading up to the top of the scaffold. The executioner clamps his hand against Shirou's shoulders and tugs down the black hood around his head. He is not afraid. He is not afraid. He concentrates on the feel of the rope around his wrists, the sound of heavy footsteps and the creaking of old wood. He feels the noose pulled taut around his neck while below him, the crowd is jeering.
His heart is thudding in his chest. He is not afraid. He is not afraid. He is not-
EMIYA opens his eyes.
*****
He makes a sword for every person he kills. He closes his eyes and sees the exact width and breadth of each blade, the delicate engravings and the leather straps along its handle.
He replicates their guns. Bullets form, glowing red and bouncing listlessly on the ground around his feet.
Sometimes, the men he kills wield bows. Others wield spears or polearms. He doesn't remember their faces. He remembers a knife in one's hand, the gleam of a blade in another. Weapons litter the ground like broken branches, the blades of black swords jutting from the earth like naked trees.
He sits on the top of his hill, working on his latest piece. It is small this time, and delicate, but he can replicate it faithfully.
The watch in his hand glows. A simple clock face with a metal clasp, it gleams and ticks in the dusty half-light.
This time, the man he killed didn't have a sword.
****
The room Shirou stays in has only one window. Small and filthy, the window only lets in a thin, dusty light. Motes of dust catch the yellow rays filtering through streaks of unwashed dirt grime, while a thick rectangle of sunlight catches against the paint chipping off the wall.
The room is hot and humid as Shirou does pull-ups on a makeshift bar across the doorway. He breathes. His skin is damp and pieces of hair stick to the sweat of his forehead.
He does one hundred push-ups; sit-ups; pull-ups. His breath comes out in tight spurts, the hard muscles of his back and arms tightening with each movement. His hands are rough and calloused as he grips the bar.
The sun sets. He pulls on his flak jacket and slings his rifle over his shoulder.
*****
Sometimes, years will pass before EMIYA is summoned.
He sits on his hill and waits. Dust rises, and a bitter wind cuts across the blood-drenched sky above him.
There is no life in this place. Sometimes, he will walk for hours, keeping to a mostly straight path. On occasion, the hill he crests will open up into a vast expanse of what looks like could be farmland. Barren fields and yellow grass, a land now dying and fallow.
He had never seen a body melt before he became a guardian. Never saw how large swaths of skin sloughed off and peeled, never smelled the stench of charred flesh. The screams were the worst. Before EMIYA learned how to better control his powers, his kills were not clean. They were not precise. With each arrow, his ideals ripped and tore off him like so much mangled flesh, spilling their acid marrow onto the naked shores of his convictions.
The first time he tried to kill himself, he wasn't sure how much time had passed, or how many summonings he had undergone. All he knew was that his hill, which was nothing but empty, craggy rock, had slowly begun to be covered with swords.
The blade glinted white like the cartilage of torn-away flesh, and the pain that accompanied it was hot and metallic. The muscles of his arms shook as he speared himself fully into his chest, the blade grinding through and meeting resistance. Blood dripped down his abdomen and he fell onto his knees, unable to keep upright. His chest heaved. He fell into unconsciousness tensed with agony.
He woke up curled on his side with one bloody fist clenched to his abdomen. The sword had dissipated, and all that was left of his attempt was dried blood on his chest instead of a gaping wound.
He tries to kill himself more times after that. A blade to the neck. A stabbing. Hanging from his solitary tree.
Nothing works. The world calls him back and he resigns himself to waiting.
He makes more swords to pass the time.
*****
The men Shirou is traveling with sit down and make camp. Loud and boisterous, these mercenaries toss back shots and trade war stories with each other, voices growing louder and more insistent as they brag across the campfire.
Shirou sits apart from there. While the others carouse and laugh and pull grinning ladies onto their lap, Shirou sits and holds the chain of his pendant like a rosary, running his thumb along the smooth edge of red stone and the tiny metal clasp connecting it. From the corner of his eye, he sees one of the women leaning suggestively against one of the men. She bends over to whisper in the man's ear, and Shirou notices just how close her lips are from touching him. Her hand stays lightly on the man's chest; the man smirks, knowingly. They go into a tent, holding hands.
It is a rare moment of weakness. Quietly, Shirou balls up the pendant and slips it back into his pocket, forcing his eyes away from the tent and focusing back on the mission at hand.
*****
There is an explosion. He runs, leaping off the building, the fabric of his cloak billowing behind him.
He has a vague awareness of why the world sent him: the city was forsaken, the epicenter of a man-made plague. There was black magic and necromancy involved, and soon the city descended into hordes of infected, blood-hungry and violent. It's easy to use his bow this time, for the things he kills are no longer human.
Everyone is dead. Silently, he stands at periphery of the city and surveys his handiwork. The city burns. Orange flames lick the sky while hundreds of dead bodies litter the ground.
"Mommy," someone says, and EMIYA turns.
There is a little girl, trapped beneath the rubble. "Mommy," The girl bleats, pathetically. "Mommy, mommy..."
He glances back. Her mother is dead, one of his arrows lodged into the meat of her back. Blood drips down the corner of her mouth and dead gray eyes stare sightlessly up at an ink-black sky.
Is he supposed to kill her too? He feels the edges of a knife, not yet materialized, ready to be conjured from the air.
But she sees him; their eyes meet. He starts but the little girl locks her gaze with him, struggling even harder.
Shit, he thinks, and after a moment's indecision, jumps down to help her.
She is young and scared, four or five years-old at the most, with wisps of fine baby hair that is soft where it's not matted with blood. The skin of her cheek is plump and pink and rounded with baby fat. Her eyes, large and tear-streaked, stare up into his.
"It's okay," he says, in a soft tone meant to be soothing. "It's okay, hold on."
He doesn't want to use his blade works. There would be no way to control the blast, no way to keep from hurting her. With effort, he strains and pushes his shoulder against the rock, grunting and gritting his teeth. The rock barely budges; bits of dirt and detritus crumble from the top as he works against it, and there's the sound of concrete scraping. He presses his hand flat against the rock face and pushes, throwing the weight of his body against it.
"Trace..."
EMIYA's mana slips around the rock like water being channeled through a stream, and he can sense it; pock-marked areas of weakness and indentations. He has never tried weakening a structure before, but it's the only way he can move it.
"...on."
The boulder cracks. EMIYA pushes through and it crumbles into tiny pieces, a cascade of rocks clattering on every side. He kneels beside her and his eyes widen.
Her little body is mangled. There are crush injuries to her legs, which have snapped and torn like sticks of porcelain, and her guts are hanging out. Even now, her skin takes on that cool dull pallor. Her pupils are dilated. She guppy breathes the air.
The blow that comes is quick, EMIYA makes sure of that. In all his years and all his travels, the one thing EMIYA is good at is killing without pain.
Quietly, he slips his hand into his pocket and fingers the amulet, the smooth stone familiar in its weight. Nothing can comfort him now. Soon, the world will call him back, and he will be alone in his wasteland. Just a solitary figure in the empty half-light, bowed against the lonely flush of an inevitable dawn.
They dump his body in an unmarked grave, along with criminals and indigents without families to claim them. The bodies are rolled up with thick stripes of canvas and tied around the neck and ankles, and from far away the pile of bodies are not unlike a pile of candies tossed into a jar.
Shirou's body rolls. It hits the ground unceremoniously, then continues to roll down the embankment. The canvas shroud catches a jagged piece of rock and tears, partially exposing his face. There is a bloodless gash along the side of his head from where he hit the rock.
In Fuyuki city, no one remembers him. Old friends laugh together; families and children walk hand in hand.
No one mourns for Emiya Shirou.
Author: sinemoras09
Characters: Archer
Rating: R
Word count: 1400
Summary: Archer in the wasteland. Warnings for graphic depictions of hanging and attempted suicide. Pre-UBW. No spoilers.
----
O ye who pass by my way, look and see if there is sorrow like my sorrow.
- Lamentations 1:12
*****
They force him up the steps. Neck bowed, hands tied behind his back, the last thing Shirou sees are the heavy wooden steps leading up to the top of the scaffold. The executioner clamps his hand against Shirou's shoulders and tugs down the black hood around his head. He is not afraid. He is not afraid. He concentrates on the feel of the rope around his wrists, the sound of heavy footsteps and the creaking of old wood. He feels the noose pulled taut around his neck while below him, the crowd is jeering.
His heart is thudding in his chest. He is not afraid. He is not afraid. He is not-
EMIYA opens his eyes.
*****
He makes a sword for every person he kills. He closes his eyes and sees the exact width and breadth of each blade, the delicate engravings and the leather straps along its handle.
He replicates their guns. Bullets form, glowing red and bouncing listlessly on the ground around his feet.
Sometimes, the men he kills wield bows. Others wield spears or polearms. He doesn't remember their faces. He remembers a knife in one's hand, the gleam of a blade in another. Weapons litter the ground like broken branches, the blades of black swords jutting from the earth like naked trees.
He sits on the top of his hill, working on his latest piece. It is small this time, and delicate, but he can replicate it faithfully.
The watch in his hand glows. A simple clock face with a metal clasp, it gleams and ticks in the dusty half-light.
This time, the man he killed didn't have a sword.
****
The room Shirou stays in has only one window. Small and filthy, the window only lets in a thin, dusty light. Motes of dust catch the yellow rays filtering through streaks of unwashed dirt grime, while a thick rectangle of sunlight catches against the paint chipping off the wall.
The room is hot and humid as Shirou does pull-ups on a makeshift bar across the doorway. He breathes. His skin is damp and pieces of hair stick to the sweat of his forehead.
He does one hundred push-ups; sit-ups; pull-ups. His breath comes out in tight spurts, the hard muscles of his back and arms tightening with each movement. His hands are rough and calloused as he grips the bar.
The sun sets. He pulls on his flak jacket and slings his rifle over his shoulder.
*****
Sometimes, years will pass before EMIYA is summoned.
He sits on his hill and waits. Dust rises, and a bitter wind cuts across the blood-drenched sky above him.
There is no life in this place. Sometimes, he will walk for hours, keeping to a mostly straight path. On occasion, the hill he crests will open up into a vast expanse of what looks like could be farmland. Barren fields and yellow grass, a land now dying and fallow.
He had never seen a body melt before he became a guardian. Never saw how large swaths of skin sloughed off and peeled, never smelled the stench of charred flesh. The screams were the worst. Before EMIYA learned how to better control his powers, his kills were not clean. They were not precise. With each arrow, his ideals ripped and tore off him like so much mangled flesh, spilling their acid marrow onto the naked shores of his convictions.
The first time he tried to kill himself, he wasn't sure how much time had passed, or how many summonings he had undergone. All he knew was that his hill, which was nothing but empty, craggy rock, had slowly begun to be covered with swords.
The blade glinted white like the cartilage of torn-away flesh, and the pain that accompanied it was hot and metallic. The muscles of his arms shook as he speared himself fully into his chest, the blade grinding through and meeting resistance. Blood dripped down his abdomen and he fell onto his knees, unable to keep upright. His chest heaved. He fell into unconsciousness tensed with agony.
He woke up curled on his side with one bloody fist clenched to his abdomen. The sword had dissipated, and all that was left of his attempt was dried blood on his chest instead of a gaping wound.
He tries to kill himself more times after that. A blade to the neck. A stabbing. Hanging from his solitary tree.
Nothing works. The world calls him back and he resigns himself to waiting.
He makes more swords to pass the time.
*****
The men Shirou is traveling with sit down and make camp. Loud and boisterous, these mercenaries toss back shots and trade war stories with each other, voices growing louder and more insistent as they brag across the campfire.
Shirou sits apart from there. While the others carouse and laugh and pull grinning ladies onto their lap, Shirou sits and holds the chain of his pendant like a rosary, running his thumb along the smooth edge of red stone and the tiny metal clasp connecting it. From the corner of his eye, he sees one of the women leaning suggestively against one of the men. She bends over to whisper in the man's ear, and Shirou notices just how close her lips are from touching him. Her hand stays lightly on the man's chest; the man smirks, knowingly. They go into a tent, holding hands.
It is a rare moment of weakness. Quietly, Shirou balls up the pendant and slips it back into his pocket, forcing his eyes away from the tent and focusing back on the mission at hand.
*****
There is an explosion. He runs, leaping off the building, the fabric of his cloak billowing behind him.
He has a vague awareness of why the world sent him: the city was forsaken, the epicenter of a man-made plague. There was black magic and necromancy involved, and soon the city descended into hordes of infected, blood-hungry and violent. It's easy to use his bow this time, for the things he kills are no longer human.
Everyone is dead. Silently, he stands at periphery of the city and surveys his handiwork. The city burns. Orange flames lick the sky while hundreds of dead bodies litter the ground.
"Mommy," someone says, and EMIYA turns.
There is a little girl, trapped beneath the rubble. "Mommy," The girl bleats, pathetically. "Mommy, mommy..."
He glances back. Her mother is dead, one of his arrows lodged into the meat of her back. Blood drips down the corner of her mouth and dead gray eyes stare sightlessly up at an ink-black sky.
Is he supposed to kill her too? He feels the edges of a knife, not yet materialized, ready to be conjured from the air.
But she sees him; their eyes meet. He starts but the little girl locks her gaze with him, struggling even harder.
Shit, he thinks, and after a moment's indecision, jumps down to help her.
She is young and scared, four or five years-old at the most, with wisps of fine baby hair that is soft where it's not matted with blood. The skin of her cheek is plump and pink and rounded with baby fat. Her eyes, large and tear-streaked, stare up into his.
"It's okay," he says, in a soft tone meant to be soothing. "It's okay, hold on."
He doesn't want to use his blade works. There would be no way to control the blast, no way to keep from hurting her. With effort, he strains and pushes his shoulder against the rock, grunting and gritting his teeth. The rock barely budges; bits of dirt and detritus crumble from the top as he works against it, and there's the sound of concrete scraping. He presses his hand flat against the rock face and pushes, throwing the weight of his body against it.
"Trace..."
EMIYA's mana slips around the rock like water being channeled through a stream, and he can sense it; pock-marked areas of weakness and indentations. He has never tried weakening a structure before, but it's the only way he can move it.
"...on."
The boulder cracks. EMIYA pushes through and it crumbles into tiny pieces, a cascade of rocks clattering on every side. He kneels beside her and his eyes widen.
Her little body is mangled. There are crush injuries to her legs, which have snapped and torn like sticks of porcelain, and her guts are hanging out. Even now, her skin takes on that cool dull pallor. Her pupils are dilated. She guppy breathes the air.
The blow that comes is quick, EMIYA makes sure of that. In all his years and all his travels, the one thing EMIYA is good at is killing without pain.
Quietly, he slips his hand into his pocket and fingers the amulet, the smooth stone familiar in its weight. Nothing can comfort him now. Soon, the world will call him back, and he will be alone in his wasteland. Just a solitary figure in the empty half-light, bowed against the lonely flush of an inevitable dawn.
They dump his body in an unmarked grave, along with criminals and indigents without families to claim them. The bodies are rolled up with thick stripes of canvas and tied around the neck and ankles, and from far away the pile of bodies are not unlike a pile of candies tossed into a jar.
Shirou's body rolls. It hits the ground unceremoniously, then continues to roll down the embankment. The canvas shroud catches a jagged piece of rock and tears, partially exposing his face. There is a bloodless gash along the side of his head from where he hit the rock.
In Fuyuki city, no one remembers him. Old friends laugh together; families and children walk hand in hand.
No one mourns for Emiya Shirou.