In a room adorned with luxurious furnishings and scattered with lion and dragon plushies, a eight-year-old boy with golden hair and green eyes awoke groggily. He felt as if he were emerging from a profound slumber, his body heavy with lethargy. Sitting up, he surveyed his surroundings with a scrutinizing gaze. The room, his own for eight years, now struck him as both unfamiliar and intimately known.
Rubbing his forehead, the boy grappled with a burgeoning headache. His old memories began to merge with the new ones, creating a disorienting mélange of experiences that felt overwhelming. "Ugh," he groaned, closing his eyes to steady himself. When he reopened them, he threw off his blanket and hopped out of bed, glancing at the clock. "Huh? Only six... old habits die hard, I guess," he muttered.
After making his bed with precision, he headed to the bathroom. The short shower did little to dispel the surreal feeling that enveloped him. Staring at his reflection, he touched his cheek, watching his mirror image mimic the action. William Grant was no more; in his place stood Alistair Pendragon, a new person with a new life.
Dressed for the day, Alistair made his way to the library. Now fully aware of his situation, he was eager to begin absorbing as much knowledge as possible.
As he traversed the ornate halls of the Pendragon estate, he encountered a woman with flowing golden hair, dressed in robes, clutching a cup of coffee. Their eyes met – hers a striking green, widening in surprise, then narrowing in a mix of curiosity and mild annoyance.
"What are you doing up so early?" she inquired with an edge to her voice.
Alistair raised an eyebrow at Rosalind, his mother. "I did this thing called 'waking up'. It does wonders, I tell you," he replied with a hint of sarcasm.
"When did you get so snarky?" Rosalind asked, taken aback by her son's newfound attitude.
He shrugged nonchalantly. "Guess I woke up on the wrong side of the bed."
Rosalind hummed, her expression softening into a smile. "Well, since you're up, how about we have an early breakfast?" she suggested, her smile widening.
Alistair returned the smile, a sense of normalcy and comfort returning to him in his mother's presence.
Alistair trailed behind his mother as they ventured for a small breakfast together. The cozy meal was filled with casual conversation, after which they meandered through the expansive halls of the Pendragon estate.
"So, what is my little dragon planning to do today?" Rosalind inquired, her voice laced with genuine interest and affection. Alistair pondered for a moment, a thoughtful tilt to his head that Rosalind found utterly adorable.
"I was thinking of spending some time in the library," he replied, his gaze turning a bit weary. "The tutors you've assigned me haven't been quite... challenging enough," he added, causing Rosalind to fall into deep thought.
"You are indeed terrifyingly ahead of the curve," she mused as they continued strolling. Then, with a sudden clap of her hands that made Alistair jump, she beamed down at him. "I have an idea! I think you're ready to start learning proper magecraft!"
The suggestion brought a smile to Alistair's face. "That sounds fun," he responded, his eyes lighting up with excitement.
"Perfect! Follow me!" Rosalind said, her steps quickening with enthusiasm as she led him towards her workshop.
Upon entering, Alistair took a moment to survey the room. It was neatly organized, with shelves laden with ancient tomes, walls adorned with intricate magic circles, and several peculiar devices scattered about. Rosalind, however, was too excited to notice her son's curiosity, urging him towards a chair in the center of the room.
"Come, come. We need to determine your element and origin," she explained, her eyes sparkling with anticipation.
Alistair obediently moved to the chair and sat down. Without warning, Rosalind lifted the back of his shirt, exposing his bare back. "EEEP!" Alistair let out a surprised yelp, eliciting a soft chuckle from his mother, who was evidently enjoying the moment.
As Alistair turned his head to shoot his mother a glare, Rosalind couldn't help but smile at his reaction – there was something undeniably cute about his annoyance. "You could have given me some warning," Alistair grumbled, clearly irked.
Rosalind, with a mischievous glint in her eyes, feigned innocence. "Hm? Sorry, it didn't occur to me," she said, her tone playful, rendering her apology less than convincing.
With a sigh, Alistair looked away, resigning himself to his mother's whims. Rosalind, meanwhile, bit her thumb, drawing blood. She began tracing abstract runes on his back with her blood, finishing by placing her palm in the center of her arcane artwork.
Blue, circuit-like patterns emerged from her arm, glowing as they traveled down to Alistair's back. The sudden influx of Od made him stiffen, a jolt running through his body. The patterns rapidly spread across his entire back, only to vanish as quickly as they had appeared.
At that moment, Alistair's body began to heat up alarmingly. Rosalind quickly withdrew her hand, shocked by the unexpected heat. Alistair, overwhelmed by the sensation, curled into himself and toppled from the chair.
"Alistair!" Rosalind cried out, her voice laced with panic. She knelt beside him, examining his condition – his face was flushed, his eyes squeezed shut, and his breathing erratic.
In a flurry of urgency, Rosalind scooped up her son and rushed toward the medical wing. Bursting through the door, she called out to the medical golems, "My son's burning up!" Gently, she placed him on a medical bed and stepped back, allowing the golems to swarm around him, each performing a different task.
As time ticked away, a wave of self-reproach washed over Rosalind. She chastised herself internally – what should have been a straightforward ritual had gone awry, causing her son distress and potential harm.
The golem's announcement, "Analysis complete," immediately captured Rosalind's attention, her head turning sharply towards the speaker. "Young Alistair's magic core has been activated, leading to an excessive generation of Od," it reported, causing a wave of concern to wash over Rosalind's face.
Despite her extensive search for information on magic cores, Rosalind had found frustratingly little. She had hoped that activating Alistair's core would be akin to opening magic circuits, but that theory now seemed flawed. Her intention had been simple: to identify his element and origin, guide him in mastering basic spells, and gradually introduce him to magecraft. When his young body was ready to handle the strain of a magic core, she planned to activate it. Yet, as it turned out, merely infusing him with a significant amount of Od had prematurely triggered the core – an accident that could have happened the day he was born during her initial vital checks. The realization gnawed at Rosalind, her lips pressing together in a mixture of worry and self-reproach.
"His mystic eyes have also been stimulated, somewhat alleviating the strain on his body as they absorb the surplus Od. However, the eyes are placing additional stress on his mind. Once fully activated, his body temperature will surge again due to continued Od generation," the golem continued, deepening Rosalind's distress.
The situation was escalating – one problem after another. Rosalind had no clue about the capabilities of Alistair's mystic eyes, but their apparent need for an immense amount of Od suggested they were extraordinarily powerful.
Approaching her son, Rosalind gently stroked his warm, flushed cheek. "My poor baby..." she murmured, her voice tinged with bitterness.
"My lady, he requires rest and a blindfold, in case his mystic eyes are sensitive," another golem advised.
Rosalind glanced at the golem, nodding in agreement. "Do it. And is there anything else we can do to alleviate his discomfort?" she inquired, her focus returning to Alistair.
"Regrettably, no. The best course is to treat this like a case of the flu. He should recover in a bit over a week," the golem responded.
Rosalind felt a sense of resignation wash over her. The day had begun promisingly, with Alistair waking up early, only to take a drastic turn due to her oversight. Now, her son lay confined to a bed, likely for a week, as he endured the consequences of her well-intentioned but ill-fated actions.
~~Fate/False Order~~
Time seemed to stretch and compress oddly for young Alistair. With a blindfold perpetually shielding his eyes, he spent long hours immersed in his old memories. Rosalind, his mother, visited him frequently in the medical room, making every effort to comfort him during his convalescence. Despite her attempts, Alistair was beginning to feel the walls close in on him.
"Please... Mom, I'm begging you, no more King Arthur stories..." he implored, casting a pleading glance in her direction. Rosalind pouted in response, her maternal affection evident. "But it's our history, a tale worth telling," she argued lightly.
Alistair let out a tired sigh. "This is the ninth time you've told me that story this week. That's an average of once and a half per day," he pointed out, his voice laced with weariness. "I understand you think there's never enough King Arthur, but honestly, I beg to differ."
Rosalind frowned slightly, her enthusiasm undimmed. "There's so much to learn from those stories," she insisted.
Alistair, massaging his temple beneath the blindfold, turned in her direction. "Like not having children with your sister and staying clear of skirt-chasing wizards," he quipped dryly.
Rosalind nodded solemnly, a hint of pride in her voice. "Ah, to have gleaned so much already, truly, you are my son," she declared, mock-wiping away tears.
Alistair, growing increasingly exasperated, pulled the blanket tighter around himself and turned away, presenting his back to his mother. "Good night," he said curtly.
Rosalind let out a small huff, standing up from her chair. She leaned over Alistair, planting a gentle kiss on his head. "Fine," she conceded softly before making her way out of the room, leaving her son to his thoughts and the quiet of the medical chamber.
After ensuring his mother's footsteps had faded away, Alistair cautiously sat up in his bed. He hesitantly reached up to his blindfold and gently removed it, keeping his eyes tightly shut. With a deep breath, he tentatively cracked open one eye, revealing not the usual emerald hue but a swirling kaleidoscope of colors. The effort strained his eye, and he quickly closed it again with a groan.
Repeating the process with his other eye, he experienced the same overwhelming sensation. He hastily replaced the blindfold and began to rub his eyes wearily. "Ugh, this is too much," he grumbled. "What's the point of knowing the air's temperature, its composition, or the speed of the room's draft? I feel cheated, I should have asked for more information…" He lamented, feeling the onset of a headache after utilizing his mystic eyes.
Observing Alistair's discomfort, one of the medical golems approached his bed. "My lord, please refrain from using your eyes. It will only exacerbate your condition," it advised in a monotone voice, eliciting a groan from Alistair.
"You're only partially correct," he responded. "Using the eyes consumes a lot of Od, which actually provides temporary relief to my body."
"May I conduct a scan to verify your claim?" the golem inquired.
Alistair waved his hand nonchalantly. "Go ahead," he consented.
The golem gently placed a hand on Alistair, monitoring his vitals. After a moment, it confirmed, "My analysis supports your statement. However, I advise against further usage for now. You are accelerating the incorporation of your mystic eyes at the expense of your body's adaptation to the magic core."
Hearing the golem's analysis, Alistair slumped back into his bed with a sigh. "Yes, sir," he replied sarcastically, dismissing the golem with a wave of his hand. Despite his casual demeanor, the complexity of his condition weighed on him, confining him to a state of rest and caution.
After three more days of rest, making it a total of nine days of recuperation, Alistair was finally released from his medical confinement. Stepping out of the room hand in hand with his mother, he let out a small sigh. "Can I take off the blindfold now?" he asked.
"Nope," Rosalind responded promptly.
"But my mystic eyes have finally turned off," Alistair protested, only to be quickly shushed by his mother.
"You rarely hold my hand anymore. Your temporary blindness is the perfect excuse for you to hold my hand," she explained, a hint of playfulness in her voice. This reasoning made Alistair hang his head, a mix of annoyance and mild embarrassment coloring his cheeks.
"I'll start holding your hand more often if I can take off the blindfold," he bargained, trying to negotiate his way out of his predicament.
Rosalind stopped in her tracks and squinted at him. "I'll agree to that if you sign a Geass," she proposed, her eyes narrowing.
Alistair's jaw dropped. "You've got to be kidding?" he exclaimed, disbelief evident in his voice. Rosalind placed a finger on her chin, tilting her head in mock contemplation. "Ummm, yeah!" she replied, her tone lacking conviction. "It was a joke," she finally admitted.
Without further ado, Alistair removed the blindfold, blinking his eyes open. He looked around, his vision still slightly blurry. When his gaze landed on his mother, he offered her a smile. Rosalind, seeing his familiar eyes, pinched his cheek affectionately. "Awww, how I've missed those eyes," she cooed lovingly.
Alistair quickly swatted her hand away, looking aside in an attempt to maintain some semblance of dignity.
"Can we start learning magecraft now? I think I've waited long enough," Alistair said with a huff, eager to shift the conversation away from his mothers fussing.
Rosalind nodded in agreement, taking her son's hand and leading him back to her workshop. Inside, they settled at one of the tables, surrounded by various magical paraphernalia. Rosalind picked up a document from the table, her eyes twinkling with excitement. "Let's pick up where we left off," she said, placing a paper on the table with a flourish.
"Your element is somehow 'Dragon', as well as having a dual origin of 'Understanding' and 'Mysteries'," she emphasized the last part with a note of pride.
Alistair nodded nonchalantly, as if this revelation was within his expectations, causing a flicker of annoyance across Rosalind's face. "My dear, I don't think you fully grasp how extraordinary this is," she said, her tone laced with mild irritation. Alistair's blasé reaction to his remarkable magical capabilities seemed to perplex her.
"I understand, but this still seems less shocking than finding out about my magic core," Alistair countered, prompting Rosalind to purse her lips in frustration.
"Having 'Mysteries' as your origin is immensely significant, and when combined with 'Understanding,' it makes you an invaluable subject for research, even for someone as esteemed as the Wizard Marshal, would love to have you strapped to his research table and dissect you. And that's not even mentioning that you have 'Dragon' as an element," she explained earnestly, trying to convey the gravity of keeping his abilities a secret.
At her words, a look of realization dawned on Alistair's face, his eyes widening in comprehension. Rosalind, noticing the change in his expression, sighed and massaged her temple. "I see it's finally sinking in," she remarked, a mix of relief and concern in her voice.
Alistair slumped into his chair, his expression one of internal conflict. "So, I need to keep all this a secret?" he asked, seeking confirmation.
Rosalind nodded affirmatively, holding up the sheet that contained his magical profile. "Not a soul should know, unless bound by an airtight Geass contract," she asserted. As she finished speaking, the paper in her hand spontaneously ignited, swiftly disintegrating into ash. She casually brushed her hands clean and offered Alistair a reassuring smile.
"Now, onto the first item on our agenda. You need to establish a mental trigger to activate your magic core, and hopefully, it will engage your circuits as well." Alistair raised an eyebrow, silently prompting her to elaborate.
"We're somewhat navigating in the dark regarding how your core will interact with your magic crest, since Arthur didn't possess one. Our best hope is that the mental trigger will synchronize with both," Rosalind explained, her tone reflecting the uncertainty of their situation.
Alistair nodded thoughtfully before posing two questions. "When was the crest implanted in me, and do you have any tips for creating a mental trigger?"
Tapping her finger on her chin, Rosalind pondered his questions. "The crest was implanted on your back when you were two and a half years old, primarily to conceal your core. As for the trigger, I personally visualize drawing a sword from a sheath, but that might not resonate with you," she mused. Pointing confidently at Alistair, she continued, "Close your eyes and meditate on it. It might take some time, but if you reflect deeply, you'll discover the right trigger soon enough."
With a resigned nod, Alistair closed his eyes and shifted into a more comfortable position.
As Alistair sat with focused determination, blind to the world around him, he delved deep into his consciousness, seeking a natural mental trigger. His mother's method of envisioning a sword being drawn didn't resonate with him; the concept felt foreign and disconnected from his experiences. Instead, he contemplated Shirou's mental trigger, the image of a gun's hammer being cocked. It felt closer to what he needed, but not quite perfect. However, it was a step in the right direction.
Guns were a familiar tool to William, and thus, to Alistair. He conjured the memory of standing at a shooting range. In his mind's eye, he identified a target, raised the gun, clicked off the safety, and placed his finger on the trigger. He felt the gradual tension and resistance before finally pulling the trigger. In response, his magic core ignited with energy, and a warmth spread across his back.
Alistair's eyes snapped open in astonishment, a low gasp escaping his lips. Rosalind, who had been watching her son intently, looked on in amazement. "You did it?" she asked, her voice laced with mild astonishment and pride.
Caught off guard by the sudden activation of his core and circuits, Alistair didn't immediately reply. Instead, he sat there, blinking in surprise, his hand instinctively moving to his back.
"Alistair," Rosalind prompted, bringing him back from his reverie.
"Uh, yes?" he responded, offering her a sheepish glance.
"Turn off your core and circuits," she instructed.
Alistair's brow furrowed in confusion. "I don't know how to," he admitted. "You never covered that part."
Realizing her oversight, Rosalind scratched the back of her head, offering a nervous smile. "Ah… whoops," she said sheepishly. "Try thinking about cutting off the energy flow. If that doesn't work, visualize the reverse of your trigger. For me, it's sheathing the sword back into its scabbard," she suggested.
Closing his eyes once more, Alistair visualized releasing the gun's trigger and simultaneously imagined cutting off the flow of Od. To his relief, the core's activity ceased, and the flow of Od through his circuits came to a halt.
Alistair opened his eyes, releasing a soft sigh of resignation. Rosalind clapped her hands enthusiastically, beaming with pride. "Well done!" she exclaimed.
Alistair waved off her praise nonchalantly, his mind already on the next task. "So, what's next?" he inquired, eager to continue.
Rosalind tapped her chin thoughtfully, a mischievous sparkle flickering in her eyes. She rose and strolled over to a corner of the room, retrieving a small set of chainmail. Alistair's expression hardened at the sight, immediately on the defensive. "I'm here to learn magecraft, not to start knight training," he protested, eyeing the chainmail warily.
His mother, however, was undeterred by his reluctance, her smile unyielding. "Nonsense, every Pendragon undergoes knight training. It's tradition," she declared.
Alistair stood up, instinctively stepping back as if the chainmail posed a real threat. "I respectfully decline. Wearing that could stunt my growth," he argued, pointing at the armor.
Rosalind, unperturbed, advanced with the chainmail. "Don't worry. I'm 172 centimeters tall, which is quite tall for a woman," she reassured him.
Alistair's eyes narrowed even further. "I'd rather not reach adulthood at the height of a 'tall' woman. I'd be bullied seeing as I would be considered as short," he retorted.
Rosalind's expression darkened at his words, her playful demeanor shifting to one of determination. In a swift motion, she fitted the struggling Alistair into the chainmail, her actions marked by a hint of annoyance. Once she finished, Alistair slumped back into his seat, shooting a glare at his mother, clearly finding the chainmail both restrictive and cumbersome. Rosalind, on the other hand, looked unusually smug.
Grumbling, Alistair spoke up, "And what's next on the agenda, Rosalind?" The use of her first name made her wince slightly, a subtle sign of her disappointment at the formal address.
Clearing her throat to mask a twinge of bitterness, Rosalind replied, "Traditionally, you should be learning swordsmanship..." Her voice trailed off as she observed her son's reaction, then regained her resolve. "But I think we'll start with spear training first."
Alistair looked perplexed. "Why a spear? And weren't you just emphasizing the importance of tradition a moment ago? What sort of Pendragon uses a spear, instead of a sword?"
Rosalind, caught in her son's astute observation, sheepishly coughed into her hand and offered a charming, albeit slightly awkward, smile. "Well~, the spear is not only the oldest weapon but also a weapon commonly used by soldiers. It's an excellent tool for learning the fundamentals of combat and is easier to start with than a sword," she explained, trying to justify her choice.
Alistair squinted at her response, sensing there was more to her reasoning. "You're leaving something out," he accused, his tone indicating he wasn't entirely convinced.
Rosalind, trying to maintain her composure, averted her eyes and flashed an overly eager smile. "Me? Never," she responded, her tone so transparent that it was almost comical. It was clear she wasn't fooling anyone, least of all Alistair.
Pinching the bridge of his nose, Alistair exhaled a resigned sigh. "This whole knight training is going to be dreadful, isn't it?" he remarked, casting a tired look toward his mother.
Rosalind met his gaze with a sweet, yet somewhat mischievous smile. "Oh, you have no idea. And before I forget, you'll be wearing that chainmail every day. You can only take it off for sleeping, showering, or special occasions," she added nonchalantly.
Her words caused Alistair's face to pale. "Shit," he muttered under his breath, the reality of his impending training sinking in.
"LANGUAGE!"
-----
A/N
Welcome back, my reader Overlords, please add this to your library and give me some comments, stones and Reviews, as it would be much appreciated.
Now that the mandatory begging is done, time to ask the hard hitting questions.
Does Mama Pendragen's training count as child cruelty? Should child services be called?
Any thoughts on the magecraft Alistair should specialize in? I'm considering him delving into curses and the like due to his 'mission', but I'm all for being convinced.
Lastly, give some opinions, I need to hear what you all think would be good for the story.
And, this one is important, I've mostly decided on who Alistair will be summoning for his Grail War, however, if anyone has a good suggestion, then I'm willing to consider changing the servant.
Now, trot along to the next chapter.