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

Genre: Adventure, Angst, Romance and Drama. There will be some humour later though: but that'll come after Character Development.

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

Also, I apologise for this being so late, but I've not had much time. Between moving out, looking for a job and preparing for my first year at university I've not had much time for writing. I'll be trying to get back into it, and if I write at least 500 words a day I should have something resembling a chapter every 8/10 days. But, I'm super sorry this is late.

Also, special thanks to Icarus Ascendant for being awesome and helping out with this chapter :D. Anyway, hope you enjoy the chapter, and thank you everyone that followed/fav'd/reviewed. I'm surprised that this is so popular, and if I didn't respond to your review let me know.

Emotions are like flowers, as flowers are to colours, said the snow fairy to the child.

They can grow under the sun; blossom with all the colours of the rainbow. They can be milky white and empty black, they can be all the colours of the rainbow and none of them at the same time. They can grow and flourish, each one with their own entire spectrum, and with one of her small, wistful smiles the lonely angel tries to describe the indescribable.

Hate would be green. Sickly and corrosive, acidic and painful. It would burn at your heart, melt your bones, eat at you forever. It would be manipulation, and falsity, and the child couldn't help but think she was thinking of someone. The snow fairy was bitter, clutching at the grass with a vice like grip, hands melting through the verdant blades. Hate would be the puppeteer, forever controlling, forever uncaring.

Pride was gold, she said. It was kings and queens on their thrones, conquerors and heroes and knights. It would be expensive wine, in thrones and armies, and in a wish. Pride and Arrogance, whilst not too dissimilar, were different. Arrogance would be silver, mercury and algorithms, stagnant yet fully believing in its own superiority. It would be in the prideful teacher, in the lords and ladies, and for all their differences they often go hand in hand.

Fear is black, she announced, eyes haunted by an unknown shadow. All consuming, an abyss that you could drown in forever. It's in the cowering student, the lonely girl, and fear would feed Desperation. Desperation would be the rotting man, deep purple mixing with fuchsia Devotion, and together they would make up the black knight forever in search of his king.

Anger was orange, like the sun. It would burn, deep and empowering, russet tones and amaryllis flares like fire. It would rage and writhe, twist and turn, fight like the betrayed warrior: flecks of red intertwined in the splash of colour.

It isn't all bad, she laughed, the child's face perturbed. Yellow was happiness, reaching like sunflowers towards the sun: tall and proud and large. It would be in the servant and the king, the warlock and the suffering. Everyone feels happy, the snow fairy said, certainty clear in her voice.

Most importantly, Love is blue. Its whirling dresses and flashing swords, eyes that held all the sorrow in the world. Love would be the haunted, the betrayed, and the happy. It would be in freedom and courage, patriotism and war; Love would be there, existing. Love is salvation, the one true healer, and with a soft smile she turns to a wilting skeleton of a man, more lifeless than the dead, and then towards the horizon: at something only the fairy could see.

It's in the sky and the air, and she says that if the child ever should ever forget to look up, to see the wide expanse of azure, and remember.

The child stares blankly, gaze trained on the lazy floating of the clouds, amber eyes like marbles: empty, with only a sliver of something inside to keep it from slipping to machine.

He doesn't remember.

The snow fairy pouts cutely, hands cradled in the hem of her dress.

The boy turns to the doll, frown on his face. He asks her, what about white? There's reds and yellows and blues, black and gold and silver, but there is no white.

Amethyst eyes glinting with something, she smiled, saying nothing.

After a while, she looked at him, and for the first time she questioned.

"What do you think?"

Shirou remained silent.

Under the shroud of midnight, they sat alone together: one staring at the sky, the other gazing towards home.

In the end, the child never figured it out. Perhaps it was for the best.

Deep in his bones, Emiya Kiritsugu knew that something was wrong with Shirou.

No, that wasn't quite the right word: he was a man well acquainted with good and evil, and there wasn't anything wrong with Shirou. He wasn't evil, a villain; there was just something off about him. The young lad acted as well as he could do, keeping in mind his situation, and slowly but surely he was gradually creeping back to a bright, happy child like any other kid his age. It was heart-warming, a strange heat suffusing his heart, a feeling that one can only get when you feel pride over something your child had done.

And Emiya Shirou was his child now, with all the baggage and the weight associated with the name Emiya.

Looking after Shirou, however, was a completely alien experience.

It was nothing like with Ilya – his body ached, his bones ravaged by the curse – who was all happy laughs and gleeful smiles, staring at the world with glittering eyes. Shirou would never walk with him to look at the nuts – his blood boiled, searing through his veins, boiling his heart – nor would they ever journey through the forests together, re-enacting some ancient epic, filled with love and life and family and adventure.

They would never meet, his child by blood and his miracle child – molten iron caressed his nerves, body erupting in pain, pain and hate and pain and hate and pain and hatehatehatehate – and he felt a part of him die at the thought.

He hated Acht. He would tear him limb from limb, bathe in his blood, string him up by his own intestines. He would grind his bones underfoot, cut out his silver tongue, whip him till he was more blood than man. He would gouge out his eyes, rip out his treacherous heart, he…

"Here,"

Kiritsugu blinked, head pounding, feeling sick and wrong.

Shirou was peering at him, eyes glimmering with something the Magus Killer couldn't quite place. A small hand was cradling a mug, the vanilla ceramic dwarfing it in size, a faint mist drifting heavenwards from the warm, soothing cup of tea.

The child smiled a strange half smile, the kind of smile that looked brittle and fragile, looking more aged than any child had the right to be. But it was a smile that showed that he was trying, that he was practicing to be happy.

Kiritsugu felt his own face twisting into the very same mockery of a smile.

"Thanks," he grunted, accepting the drink for what it was, trying his best to not let the pain – head pounding, chaotic beats drumming the inside of his head, drawing him one more step to madness – show on his face.

Avalon's sheathe looked as if he wanted to say something, before he thought against it. His head was inclined eastwards, cocked oddly, as if he was listening to something that only he could hear.

"Aspirin?" Shirou asked, the words falling oddly, as if he was both asking if he wanted aspirin and just what aspirin was.

Kiritsugu only nodded, watching the boy with a keen gaze, the Magus Killer looking more predator than human. It was one of those moments that he knew something had happened, but for the life of him he couldn't place what. Despite the curse in his magic circuits – cancerous black bubbled in his core, violently corroding his magical crest – he could not sense any hint of magic, or that the boy was practicing magecraft when told not to.

The tormented man just sighed, giving up. He halfheartedly followed the child with one eye, sipping the bitter liquid quietly.

It tasted like ash on his tongue, the tea feeling like sandpaper on his raw throat. It tasted of broken promises, of family he would never see. It tasted like a young girl on Alimango, dead and dying and living all at once with eyes of crimson and words of death on both tongue and heart. It tasted like gunpowder, of pain and bone, of the war that gave him everything and took it all away.

It tasted like Irisviel, of sorrows and regrets and wishes of what could have been.

"So," Shirou stood in the doorway, leaning against the frame. "It's getting worse, isn't it?"

It remained unsaid. Kiritsugu's rapidly declining health was the Emiya household's worst kept secret, everyone with eyes capable of seeing the man's degradation. How on Earth Shirou had figured it out was beyond him, the boy announcing it one day, staring through him rather than at him.

That wasn't to say that he didn't have theories; because he had many theories. At first, he had assumed that it was some sort of fanciful dream, a fantasy crafted by a boy who wasn't quite right. It was only a small cold then, a very faint weakness that was attributed to illness and fatigue. But when the physical effects started, he started to think more heavily into it.

Shirou must have been influenced by the corrupted Grail more than he thought.

What that meant, however, he didn't want to dwell on.

"I'm surprised you haven't asked about Magecraft yet." Gruff, Kiritsugu accepted the tablets – circuits burning, thrumming painfully under his skin – gulping them down dry. "Normally, that's the first thing you ask in the morning."

"It's im-prag-ti-cul and boring," the boy's clumsy tongue fumbled with the word, quoting something that Kiritsugu had said to him before.

"Impractical." He sipped his tea thoughtfully, correcting the boy; the warm liquid bringing some colour back to his skin, making the man look less gaunt and more haggard, tired. "It's a shame you think like that. I was thinking of starting to teach you as well…"

Spine ramrod, the child snapped to attention, puffing up slightly. "I do!"

He stopped, mouth wide, shoulders slumping as he realised he had just given the charade away.

"Thought so," Kiritsugu frowned, staring at his child reproachfully, features marble, "what have I said about lying?"

"Not to do it…" The red-head pouted, probably in an attempt at some forceful scowl, in the end only managing to look like a wounded kitten.

"And what did I say liars were?"

Solemnly, and with the sort of confidence that only children could wield, Shirou replied, "That they were bad guys and bad guys get stopped by the good guys, so I shouldn't lie or I won't be a hero."

The rose-tinted idealism wasn't lost on either of them.

The distorted not-man smiled. "Exactly."

With that very same grimace of a smile on his face, Kiritsugu stumbled to his feet: his limbs protesting weakly, tired and worn. Shirou remained where he was, eyes guarded, only watching as the shambling corpse of a man struggled with his own weakness. It was a charade they'd both like to keep up, if only a little while longer.

"Raiga wanted us to visit, and Taiga was asking after you, saying something about Torashinai wanting to meet new blood."

The 'new blood' in question just blinked, "We're going now?"

Urging the child out the doorway – who was dressed in a plain white shirt and beige shorts, perfect for the warm sunny weather outside – he carefully schooled his features into stone. "We are. Get your shoes on."

Shirou bounced into action, scooping up his shoes by the doorway, feet slapping against the wooden floor as he ran.

Maybe, if they were lucky, the façade will replace the real, and this tale wouldn't be a tragedy.

The father struggled. But, he knew better than anyone: all legends are tragedies.

One day, the snow fairy turned to the glass child (clear and transparent, but ready to be filled), and asked if he wanted to learn magic.

The child remained quiet, only nodding in response. He sat cross-legged on the cold, wooden floor of his room, the two of them drenched in darkness. There was something inherently wrong, the child felt, in what they were doing: like they weren't supposed to be doing this, like it wouldn't be what the not-man wanted.

The doll just giggled away any concerns, and, the boy supposed, that was that.

After all, she had said, nobody knows Kiri as well as I do.

Silently, the child pondered the truth in that statement, and whether anyone really knew the man at all. But, it didn't really matter, so he poured all his attention onto what he was learning.

Magic – no, not magic, Magecraft – was odd, for lack of a better word. It was all numbers and letters and equations, addition and subtraction and multiplication, and it all seemed far more complicated than it had to be. It would be far more 'prag-ti-gal' to use a lighter for fire, or phone to talk to people, instead of long lines of complex 'al-gore-if-ems': it all seemed like too much effort for too little reward.

All in all, it didn't seem like the magic he had read so much about in stories, and the boy said as much.

Her face twisted, as if she had bitten a lemon, and the red-head wondered if that was the wrong thing to say. Conversations were odd, he had found, and it was very hard to say the right things and act the right way.

Regardless, they moved on, to talk of 'crests' and 'elements' and 'origins'. It was all very complex and wordy, and if he was being honest with himself, he really didn't understand half the things that were being said. He didn't quite understand what she meant by incarnation, nor did he understand what it meant to have an origin.

He knew what it meant, just not what it meant: what did it mean to have an origin of fire? Of water? Did it mean that they were born of fire, that they lived their lives in sparks and embers? If they had an origin of air, did it mean that they danced with the wind, forever moving, never finding home?

The snow fairy laughed, the sound reminiscent of funeral bells, and explained it more clearly.

Origins aren't origins, the child learned. They're just manifestations that define people, which can guide your actions. It's like having a little voice in your subconscious that says 'you should do this' or 'let's do that' – everyone has one, even those who are unable to use mana, and both herself and Shirou were no different.

He found out that her origin was Wish, her element Light, and her sorcery trait Wish Granting.

He asked her then, what his origin was.

"I'm sorry."

The doll told the boy she didn't know, and life moved on.

To be a magus was to walk with death, and no-one knew that quite as well as Irisviel.

Death had been a concept she had known well, that ever-hanging axe, and Irisviel was created (in those bitter moments, she wonders, pondering what could have been, should have been, if she was human instead of doll) with a more intimate knowledge of Death then one should have. It was the curse of being not just an Einzbern homunculi, but a Justica model, whose first memory was not love or happiness but Death.

She smiled, a small, brittle thing, more glass than iron.

Irisviel could see it, even now. She saw it in the plants, in the sky, in herself. Not even Kerry was safe, the malignant cancer visible to her own eyes, the darkness and the hate seeping through every nerve in his body. It sizzled and hissed, broiling uncontrollably, and it pained her to see her hero decay: unable to do anything to help, forced to be the silent observer.

In the end, all she could do was stay nearby, gravitating and orbiting around the two; looking after them as best she could. The old, fractured man and the young, cracked child: two distortions playing at being human. They were a not-quite family, a puzzle missing a few of its pieces, and the mother thought of her child.

In a quiet moment, when they all slept, she had tried to visit her. Tried to get to her, to see her again. But each and every time she'd fail, feeling her own body break down, drifting off. Her prana would dwindle, like a Servant without a Master, and she was never able to go far before fading.

All homunculi carried some fragment of the Third, the potential to manifest the soul, but that small shard was nothing compared to the real thing. Shirou fit his name well, his prana a blinding white, dense and thick despite his weak circuits. Her own power – more egg white, more vanilla – felt dwarfed by it, despite the fact that her own circuit count was innumerable, her potential power out-put almost limitless.

The Master had become the Servant. It was almost ironic; she drew power from Shirou, whose own abysmal prana output was backed by the properties of the Third, just as Saber had once done from her, from them.

The engine hummed softly, the three of them in Kerry's car. Shirou and Kerry were talking to each other, voices soft, about this and that: good guys and bad guys, and all of that stuff that Kerry pretends not to like. The boy had gravitated to the idealism, to the 'save everyone' mentality, and whilst Kerry was oblivious to it all she could see it clear as day. Emiya Shirou was an odd mixture of mannerisms, a combination of both herself and Kerry, a clean slate that had painted an image of both of them upon its surface, cherry picking the traits that he felt fit him the best.

Irisviel mourned for the boy that once was, for her own inability to do anything, to the death of her loved one. She mourned for her daughter, left in the hands of Acht.

Irisviel mourned, and mourned, her hollow smile a weak defence.

She turned her head west, chin resting on her hand, the light of the sun passing through her. The boy her thoughts revolved around was in a deep conversation with the man her heart died for, talking about the latest T.V show (or cartoon, but the last time she said this the child had muttered that it was an 'adult show for adults', not a 'baby cartoon').

Her husband nodded along thoughtfully, tossing out the occasional comment about a 'Birdman' or 'Superwoman', and other characters from his youth.

A small hand reached for hers, tan hands overlaid with her own.

Irisviel wished they belonged to someone paler, with amethystine eyes instead of amber, and hated herself for it.

She whispered to Shirou, about a not-king with all the burdens in the world and a man with the dreaming heart, and how they were her favourite heroes.

Though perhaps, the snow fairy thought, her greatest light would be her child.

The lesson began as any other, under the secrecy of the stars.

They would talk of Magecraft, of thaumaturgy and mysteries and everything in between, a brief background of it all. The fairy would ask questions, about everything and anything, and he would answer them as best he can. He would recite the five elements (she even made a mnemonic to make it easier for him to remember, 'the Educated View the Angelic Feel War'), tell her what he knew about incarnations and origins, and he even recited to the woman her own sorcery trait.

Each and every time he got something right, she would clap happily: every time he made a mistake, she would fix it. They did this often, until the mistakes dwindled and the successes poured forth, and just as he was prepared to do it all over again she asked him if he knew about True Magic.

Magecraft, the boy corrected sternly, True Magecraft.

She poked her tongue out mischievously, before laughing, repeating her words again.

There were five. Five wondrous, magnificent Magics, spells and powers that trespass on the authority of the gods, gifted to only those that turn their back on Akasha. Alone in their power, peerless and immense, they were powers that normal magi were unable to replicate, and forever distant from those without magic.

Most had lost their true name, but, she supposed she would make do.

The First was the first to lose its name, the passing of its owner making it fade from the annals of history, and allowed for the phenomena known only as the 'Denial of Nothingness': creating and duplicating and erasing over and over and over. Its owner had died, long ago, but its power still influenced this world.

The Second, whilst not losing its name, was known only by its wielder. Everyone called it the Kaleidoscope, and its authority was the 'operation of parallel worlds'. The specifics were a closely guarded secret, with only the Tohsaka privy to a few of its mysteries, but she warned that if he was ever approached by Zelretch, to leave as quickly as possible.

He was a snake, poisonous and treacherous, and wasn't to be trusted: the Einzbern knew this as fact.

The Third was by far the most beautiful, her eyes taking on a sense of wonderment. It was the 'materialisation of the soul', the authority of the heart, and it was the one miracle that her family coveted. It was their heritage, their possession, and it was the goal of all Einzbern to return that magic to the world.

Heaven's Feel was its name, and the child was oblivious to the odd, almost possessive glint in her eyes as she looked at him.

The Fourth, and the Fifth, were alien to the doll, having no knowledge on either of them. She just knew, like all magus knew, that they existed somewhere, and that they still influenced the world.

She finished her lecture of with a flourish, wire thin strands cascading down her shoulders as she tilted her head, poking a tongue out mischievously.

Shirou blinked, before asking something that had been on his mind.

"Are you a Magician?"

She was neither, she told him. She was a Homunculus, a veil.

"Okay, remember to smile!" Irisviel cheered, voice heard only by him.

Clad in the very same dress she died in, all purple and white, Irisviel was crouched down: fretting over this and that, telling him to go make friends and to not be mean and to stay safe. She was acting like an overprotective, overbearing mother, but Shirou plastered on the not-quite-right smile and weathered the storm.

If there was one thing the red-head had learned about Irisviel, was that she was a natural disaster. You couldn't fight her off – you had to work around her.

"And don't forget the three Hs." She raised her hand, lifting a finger as she recited, "Happiness, honesty, and…um…"

"Housework," Shirou finished off, nodding sagely.

Housework was an important rule, the duo had learned. All three of them were bad at it: Kiritsugu managed to cook food that could pass as chemical weaponry, Shirou was too young to have experience – though his food was becoming more and more edible the more he experimented – and Irisviel couldn't make anything by virtue of being dead.

They were by themselves in the yard, the adults inside the house. Shirou was under the assumption that they were bad liars who lie, because the Fujimura's lived in a small mansion. It was tall and imposing, walls the colour of grainy sand, and a finely manicured garden with not a blade of grass out of place. They were very clearly well off, so much so that Shirou felt almost awkward being here – him and his father looking as scruffy as they come.

"I'll just be…" she fumbled, frantically looking left and right, "over there!"

Irisviel pointed at an old, wooden bench on the porch. "Just call me if you need me, okay?"

"I won't forget."

Wordlessly, she gave a thumbs up, before leaving him alone. It was just in time too, as the glass doors burst open, the Tiger of Fuyuki storming outside. The fabled Torashinai was resting against her shoulder, the bokken chipped and worn yet no less dangerous, and the small charm glinted malevolently below the bandaged hilt. It was the very first time that Shirou had seen the weapon, Raiga having banned its presence when they met up, and he couldn't help but pale at the sight of it.

Just the presence was heavy enough, the oppressive aura crushing his own, and the young boy could feel a small headache coming on.

It was unlike any bokken he had seen before, and it was the first time that he remembered feeling anything from a weapon.

The small charm jingled as she walked, the cartoonish image of a cat bouncing merrily, in complete opposition to the bloodlust it spewed.

"Shirouuuuuuuuuuuuu," Taiga leaned close, noses almost touching, "what you doinnggggggggg?"

Shirou plastered on a smile, leaning as far back as he could without sending the teenager off in a rampage. He wanted to stay as far away as possible from the danger he was sensing.

"Nothing, Fujimura-san." Shirou said.

"Shirouuuuuuuu." She whined, waving the weapon around like a stick. "What have I said about the san!? The only san I want to see is if it is in nee-san – Fuji-neesan."

"Sorry, Fujimura-san." Shirou bowed low.

Taiga huffed. "Sometimes I think you don't love me…where did I go wrong in raising you? It seems like just yesterday we were in the fields, you, Emiya-san and me, as you practiced with Torashinai…"

And then she was off in her own little fantasy world, making up strange and entirely false events to satisfy her odd world view. Taiga, much to the amusement of Irisviel (and that's putting it lightly), had developed an odd pseudo-crush on the old magus; Shirou had absolutely no idea where that came from, but accepted it regardless.

"Fujimura-san," he studiously ignored the downtrodden look on her face, more than used to it by now, "why did you ask after me? Do you need something?"

"Yes," shameless, she forced the bokken into his face, the wood dangerously close to taking out an eye. "You're going to be my test subject."

"Test…subject?" Shirou tasted the words carefully.

"Yep," thankfully, she removed Torashinai from his face, "so, like, Aragaki-kun – he's a grumpy guy who likes cooking – was saying at school the other day that I couldn't teach anybody to save my life. Naturally, I had to show him the error of his ways."

That dawning sense of realisation was slowly creeping up on him, heavy and terrifying, and he prayed to any deity that was listening that it wasn't to be.

"So I, your precious Fuji-nee, will be teaching you kendo." Taiga cheered, thumbs up, posing like a character from one of those Super Sentai shows – hands raised, pointing to the sky. "You can thank me later on in life, when you are a super kendo star, and when I'm old and grey you can feed me tangerines…"

Shirou remained silent, watching the girl cautiously, as if she was a rabid beast on the loose. Maybe, if he made no sudden movements, she'd go away: like a T-Rex. Irisviel had said to just nod and say yes when in this sort of situation, but did he really want to be taught by Fujimura…with Torashinai?

A thrum of something flashed through the bokken, as if sensing his thoughts, and Shirou couldn't hide his wince.

"Hey, what was that look for?" Unfortunately for him, Fujimura saw the grimace. "I'll have you know that I'm a brilliant teacher. The best. You should be grateful I'm even teaching you anything, taking time out of my busy life to helping the youth of today flourish…"

Her tone dropped, tinged with melancholy, and Shirou could almost see her ears droop – like a cat. "How could my Shirou-kun possibly be this mean to me…guess like I'll have to tell daddy and Emiya-san that you're being mean again."

Peripherally, as if sensing trouble, he could see Irisviel looking at him reproachfully: as if asking why there was a crying girl in front of him. Her eyes would flicker every now and again, jumping from him, to the weapon the girl wielded, then back to him: and something told him that she could also feel the oppressive aura spewing from the wood.

Something told him that smiling wouldn't get out of this.

Precariously, the Sword of Damocles teetered over his head, and he couldn't help but feel he was going to regret this.

"…Okay, Fujimura-san."

She cheered, immediately dropping the crocodile tears, lifting the sword high into the sky in victory.

"Well, let's get started right away!" With that, she dropped into a pose: arms ajar, legs firmly planted into the ground. "Just copy my movements, okay?"

Her feet slithered through the grass, her wooden sabre carving through the air, as she began her dance. The bokken soared, the girl fighting some unseen enemy, and as she moved Shirou could feel something was off. Like her movements weren't so much hers but someone else's, someone much older and much more experience, and they were made with such confidence that he knew they would hit.

Irisviel gave him a warning look, sensing something wrong, but he was oblivious to it.

She stopped suddenly. "Now you do it."

"Umm…" Shirou stared, hard. "Don't I need a weapon or something first?"

"But you do have a weapon, though." Carelessly, she held out the hilt of her own bokken, hands gripping the wooden blade tight. "Just use Torashinai."

"If…if you're certain…" Cautiously, he reached out for the hilt, hands shaking.

He gripped it tight, hands wrapping around the warm, bandage wrapped hilt of the tool, and was filled with a sense of rightness. Like he was meant to use a sword, to be a sword, and with a cursory swing he smirked.

This was easy, why would he need help from someone like Taiga. She was pathetic, all teary eyes and wide smiles, sheltered in the darkness, and why would he need her? Damn why does he need anyone, he was perfect the way he was. Irisviel, Kiritsugu, they were nothing without him, would continue to be nothing, and why was he letting them hold him back?

He should be out there fighting. Maiming and killing, again and again and again and again. Bathe in the blood of his enemies, slaughter the innocent.

He was perfect, he was complete, he was wrong.

Innocently, the charm jingled.

Shirou blacked out.

The prideful cat smiled, all fang and hate, and lured the child to his lair.

When Shirou next woke up, he was somewhere infinitely familiar and infinitely alien, on a mountain that wasn't yet was and below a night sky.

For the first time he could remember, he was alone.

Chapter 1, Complete.

So this happened. Evil Cliffhanger is evil, however, we get to see the very first spirit next time, and isn't that going to be fun. I've listed up all the suggestions so far: I'll have to do some crazy Thaumaturgy to get F/GO info on some of them but I should manage.

Once more, special thanks to Icarus Ascendant for doing the thing. :D

Anyway, yeah, the angst in this chapter is a thing. But Character Development is super important, and we see relationship stuff, so it isn't a massive mess. You get a cookie if you can see the triangle, and maybe one if you guess the spirit.

Spoilers (read Backwards): ianihsaroT

Regardless, hope you enjoyed the chapter, and I hope to see you all again next time. Remember, any questions, don't be afraid to ask :D.

Signed, Waterscape.