Disclaimer: I don't own Nasu-verse. Sadly.

Genre: Adventure, Angst, Romance and Drama.

Pairings: Uncertain. Honestly, don't mind writing anything, so if you want to see a pairing - either Het/Slash/FemSlash - just say it.

Warning: This is just a pilot chapter - I am uncertain as to whether or not I should continue this. This was written to try and get me in the mood for writing other things, so it's all unplanned, and I have no plans of actually continuing this properly. If people want to see more of this, then I don't mind continuing it, updates will just be a bit strange. Also, short prologue is short, future chapters will be 4000+...and this is unbeta'd.

Anyway, hope you enjoy the prologue.

The Holy Grail was dying.

It was a fact. The device held little care over its own survival, the little sentience it had gathered over the years already drifting off, comforted by the radiance of Excalibur. It was happy (no, that wasn't quite the right word – perhaps apathetic would be more precise) to disappear, to fade from this world, for it could not understand death. It was a tool to be used by man, to grant their one true wish, and if there was no longer any need for it then it would accept its own destruction.

No, perhaps it would be wrong to say dying. It wasn't alive, it wasn't capable of thinking or breathing. It may look into the hearts and minds of humans, draw parallels and correlations and similarities in order to gift them with a servant. But concepts like life and death were alien to it, alongside emotions and thoughts and feelings – everything that makes up sapience was absent.

Under the guiding light of Excalibur, the Holy Grail would have peacefully drifted off, disintegrating under the soft rays.

But something didn't want it to die. Something wanted to live on, to fester, to hate-hate-hate. Angra Mainyu, a spirit that had latched onto its form so long ago, that lingered and hated and wished, wanted to survive. And as long as something wished, the Holy Grail would continue to survive.

Angra Mainyu wanted to be brought out into the world, but was so very scared of it. It was anathema to it; 'All the World's Evils' could not truly understand Gaia, nor did it know Alaya. Humanity's ability to both loathe and love confused it, confounded it, broke it. So no matter how hard it wished to be free, to wreak havoc on the world it needed someone to truly understand it to let it free.

The Grail was neither benevolent, nor malevolent. It could not understand this fear, nor could it understand the idea of hate and love. It was the very epitome of apathy, and thus, Angra Mainyu's desire was denied by the very Grail itself.

It was not tainted enough to support All The World's Evils.

Yet Angra Mainyu was not the sole spirit ensconced within the Grail. Irisviel, or at the very least what was left of her will, remained – brought out by the overwhelming purity of Excalibur's light.

She had loved. She had loved so deeply and truly that, in her heart of hearts, she had one true wish. A wish that, unlike the chaotic desires of a truly evil spirit, it could understand. In the end, all she wanted was for Kiritsugu to be happy. She wanted him to accomplish his dream, to be a hero, to wipe out all evil in the world so that everyone can be happy.

Irisviel sacrificed herself for her love, the man that she let kill her, so that he can be happy.

And whilst it may not truly understand emotion – in fact, the only thing that it could understand was the transplantation of heroes from the Throne to the physical world – the Holy Grail was made for the sole purpose of crafting a path to Akasha.

Unknown to death, nor known to life.

Unaware of loss, nor aware of gain.

It held very little care; or rather, it wasn't created to be interested in the affairs of the outside world. It held one purpose, and one purpose only.

To successfully grant a wish, and open the doors to Akasha.

Irisviel had a wish. A wish that was written in her heart, body and soul. A wish that, in the end, aligned perfectly with the Grail's purpose.

I wish that you can be a hero, just as you were to me.

And in that moment, in a baptism of incandescent flame, a pathway to Akasha was created. Humanity's strongest, the souls of the heroes who died, were little more than fuel for a fire; the grail picking and tearing and placing as it carefully built the stairway to the Root.

A wish was made. Its purpose fulfilled.

The Holy Grail faded, taking with it the corrupted spirit Angra Mainyu, as it wrote Kiritsugu into the annals of history as a Heroic Spirit.

The Magus Killer.

With its purpose complete, it would lay dormant. Sleeping, until the next War took place.

It was just a shame that heroes died young.

Now, all that remained was a pathway to Akasha, to the Throne of Heroes. It was intrinsically tied to the new Hero, to the Magus Killer; he would act as the gateway. He would be all that was required to lead the way to the Root.

He was burning.

Shirou blinked, once, twice, eyes of liquid amber (muted, dulled, lost) reflecting the burning corona of the flames. They flickered, jagged arcs of flames spluttering from the debris, trails of burning death caressing his footsteps as he stumbled through the wasteland.

An odd sense of apathy overtook him them, a detachment born from the will to survive, and despite the very real fact that he was dying (slowly, slowly, like a flickering candle – burning and burning and burning) he still walked on. Walked and walked and walked.

He ignored the cries for help, the screams for salvation, the gazes of desperation. He ignored the way there eyes watered, the pleas for him to help, for him to drag them out of the fire.

He was burning, and walking, and that was okay. Amidst the cries, the screams, he kept on walking, kept on burning; truly unable to find the strength to stop and help, to try and save anyone. Shirou knew that he should at least try and help them, to try and save them, but he just couldn't find it in himself to care

Something inside of him tells him that he should be disgusted with himself. Why should he be able to walk, when others had their legs crushed? Why should he still breathe, when others choked on the smoke? Why should he live, when they couldn't?

But then again, why should they live, and he not?

It was that thought that kept him moving. As long as he had that drive to live, he could ignore it all. Ignore the pain, ignore the fire, ignore everything. He could pretend that he wasn't here, with the fire and the flames and the pain; that he was at home with his parents and his house and his family and his friends.

He was only a child, what could he do? He wasn't strong enough to lift the debris, or fast enough to save everyone. He wasn't smart enough to think his way out, or sturdy enough to live through the flames. He wasn't a hero.

The excuses felt weak even to his own ears, a poor salve for the bitterness and self-loathing.

But he wants to live.

So he'll walk. And ignore. And survive.

It was as easy as that.

He stumbled, foot caught on jagged rock, and without a sound he tumbled to the ground. Superheated stones dug into his stomach, his ankle ached, his body burned.

And he gave up. He accepted his death. The red-head understood that this was his end, that he wouldn't live to see tomorrow, and under the blanket of flame he felt himself drifting away, as if being lulled to sleep.

The soft thud-thud of boots, the crunching of stone underfoot, was all that kept him from truly drifting off – and when he was encased in a warmth that wasn't burning he craned his neck backwards, staring into watery eyes that were filled with so much happiness that Shirou couldn't help but feel envy.

There was a hero here. He was being saved.

Their eyes met, and something clicked.

Lights and sounds and images and forever crossed the dying child's mind. Scorching deserts and lush forests and kingdoms and families and battles and war and everything that ever was and ever will be stumbled into his mind, and he was burning all over again.

In that moment, a crimson-haired youth was shown eternity, as he lay drowning in a sea of flame.

He would have died, if it wasn't for the timely intervention of Avalon – the man that he simultaneously envied and adored forcing the Noble Phantasm into his impressionable body. The manifestation of that ever-distant utopia was able to counteract the effects slightly, just enough so that its new host would survive and live.

Nasu Shirou ceased to exist, leaving behind a mother that would never truly recover from the loss of her child and a younger sibling that would never remember him, memories and feelings and dreams escaping through the cracks.

All that would remain was a memory of a man, beaten and bloody, who had a smile that burnt like the sun and a happiness that he would forever adore.

Shirou woke up, roused by the steady beeping of the nearby machinery.

He was in a hospital room; that much he could gather. Eyes and head heavy, his eyes trailed passed the simple, lacklustre décor – focusing only momentarily on the machines, a hint of curiosity in his eyes as he watched the steady fluctuations of colour, the methodical splash of mint green – before focusing primarily on the pair nearby.

The man – tall, gruff, yet Shirou couldn't help but feel warm at his presence – stared back, eyes blank. He had a strange odour about him, a smell not too dissimilar to fireworks, and to the child he looked strange. Like he didn't really fit in with the rest of the world, like he was different, wrong. But still, despite this feeling of wrong-wrong-wrong, he felt safe. So when that man stood up suddenly from his seat, Shirou wasn't afraid.

Kiritsugu was a distorted not-man.

"You're awake," it was a simple statement, for a man that was anything but simplistic. "You alright?"

Shirou nodded. He didn't really know what else to do.

"My name is Emiya Kiritsugu," Shirou just blinked, unsure of how to respond. The man, seeing that same blankness, continued on. "What's your name?"

Shirou opened his mouth, as if to reply, only to stop as he tried to remember his name. Unbidden, a name rose to the surface, and regardless of whether or not it was his name he told the man.

"Do you want me to be your father?" Kiritsugu's gaze was heavy, forceful, his words carefully enunciated.

A slight nod, and the child sealed his fate. Though Kiritsugu's outward appearance didn't change, his being a far cry from the man he remembered picking him up, Shirou couldn't help but think he was happy.

"I'll sort the papers." Kiritsugu left in a manner that was far too similar to a predator, stalking out of the room like a panther.

Leaving him in the presence of the woman.

She was slim and slender, nowhere near the size of the broad-shouldered figure of his new father (a strange thought, especially since he couldn't exactly remember his old one), with long, silken hair that tumbled down her back like glossy silver and eyes of deep amethyst. Her beauty, whilst vast, was simply unearthly, and Shirou couldn't help but think that she wasn't human – she was just too perfect.

Her eyebrows, silver like her hair, furrowed – watching after the man with a mixture of fondness and annoyance. Sighing softly, she turned her gaze to the child lying down.

"Hello," Shirou said, voice bland.

The woman paused from her perusal, before pointing towards herself. There was no-one else in the room, not even any nurses, so the red-head had no idea why the woman seemed so shocked that someone was talking to her.

"Hi," the bewildered woman replied, her voice weak. "You can see me?"

"I can," he tilted his head, echoing the rather pensive look she sported before, "is that strange?"

Lips parting, she made to say something. Then stopped, started again, before giving up on it all. Slumping down on her seat, the lady looked defeated; tired, as if she's given up on it all.

Shirou didn't like the memories it brought up.

"What is your name?" It was almost robotic, monotonous. A question that was asked out of propriety's sake, more-so than an actual desire to know about the fake-human.

She perked up, suddenly excited. "My name is Irisviel von Einzbern, and it's a pleasure to meet you."

The child made a soft noise of acknowledgement, before falling into silence. Uncomfortable, the newly-named Irisviel fidgeted in her seat, unnerved by the heavy gaze of the boy.

"So," she began, a small smile on her face. "You can see me, hmm?"

She giggled, before continuing, not even bothering to wait for an answer. "Then, I believe that I have a confession to make."

She smirked, a small mirthless thing. Shirou couldn't help but feel like it was wrong on her face, as it didn't belong there. Irisviel should be smiling – like that man – smiling a smile that could outshine the sun, not that small jaded thing.

"I am Irisviel von Einzbern, and…" she took a deep breathe, fortifying herself, "I'm dead."

Short, blunt, and to the point; delivered clinically, as if a simple fact.

Shirou just nodded.

The two of them sat there in silence, listening to the steady beats of the machines, the hushed tick-tock of the clock and the steady beep-beep of one of the machines he was hooked up too. A young, broken doll of a boy, and a young, broken doll of a woman; waiting in silence for their hero.

Hours later, under the twinkling lights of the stars, the newly born Emiya Shirou walked out of the hospital – wedged between the man who dreamed of superheroes and the woman that loved more than she lived.

It was the start of something beautiful.

Prologue, end.

Yes, it's short, but it's a prologue - normal chapters will be 4000+. If I continue it. If you want to see more, just tell me - I don't mind writing this as well as Colosseo. And as always, this is unbeta'd.

So, we have Third Magic! Shirou, Heroic Spirit! Kiritsugu, and ?! Irisviel. And as this involves the Third Magic, expect to see more Heroic Spirits, from all across the Fate/ series - so characters like Rider from Fate/Extra, and other people.

Anyway, hope you enjoyed this prologue.

Signed, Waterscape.