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Filvis's presence there clearly carried a heavy layer of meaning. Filvis Challia—an elf known to be steadfast, yet was actually full of secrets—She had a background far darker and more complicated than what met the eye.
The answer lay in Filvis's very nature. Filvis Challia was not just an ordinary Elf—she was the sole survivor of the darkest tragedy to befall the Dionysus Familia. In the past, during the Nightmare of the 27th Floor, the members of the Dionysus Familia were ambushed by a corrupted spirit that destroyed not only the victims' bodies but also their souls. Blood, screams, and the stench of death filled the dark corridors of the Dungeon. Among all that, only Filvis survived—but at a terrible, horrifying price.
When she regained consciousness, her body was different. A faint glow emanated from the center of her chest, where a magic stone was embedded. That stone, a remnant of the corrupted spirit, was the mark of a curse that transformed her into something not entirely Elf. She was now a creature, a half-monster being, who, though her outward appearance remained beautiful, hid destruction and ugliness within.
The days after the tragedy were filled with darkness. Filvis viewed the world with empty eyes, as if all the colors of life had vanished. Her pale face was always stained with blood—whether it was the blood of an enemy or her own, she no longer even knew the difference. Every step felt degrading, and she began to believe that she was unworthy of walking under the sunlight.
No one accepted Filvis... except for one figure. The god Dionysus, with a gentle smile but eyes full of sinister secrets, embraced the fallen Filvis. "You don't need to reject yourself, Filvis," he whispered temptingly. Yet, that was precisely the beginning of Filvis's new downfall.
Because in that embrace, Filvis gained a new skill—Einsel.
Einsel was not just a skill, but a shackle that split Filvis's soul and body into two sides. Ein, the cold, blood-soaked, and merciless side. He was the one who did Filvis's dirty work, carrying out all of Dionysus's orders without hesitation—spying, sneaking into the Dungeon, even killing. It was Ein who created Filvis's new epithet—the feared Banshee, a shadow of Orario.
Meanwhile, the other side—the obedient Filvis—remained by the god's side like an untainted jewel, her beautiful face seemingly denying the bloodstains clinging to her hands. People saw Filvis as Dionysus's loyal companion, but only a few knew that beauty was merely a mask, and behind it resided a killer who never stopped being drenched in blood.
And perhaps, it was precisely because of this duality that Filvis now sat in this orphanage—trying to atone for sins she could never erase.
The blind widow had actually lost her husband due to Ein's actions. That night, while Ein was on a mission for Dionysus, she received an order to silence a witness who had gotten too close to a corrupted spirit's location. Ein did it without hesitation, coldly ending the man's life. Now, every time she heard that widow's cries, guilt stabbed her chest like a dagger.
Filvis was no stranger to the blood on her hands. This wasn't the first time she had taken another's life—but most of them were just nameless adventurers, with no family waiting at home. This time was different. There was someone who wept, who had lost, whom Filvis could only console with empty words on each visit.
Every time she sat before the woman, Ein's words whispered in her mind. "Hypocrite. You pretend to be a healing angel, yet your hands still smell of her husband's blood." Filvis bit her lip, holding back anger at herself, suppressing the nausea that kept coming.
Yet amidst the guilt, the shadow of Dionysus lingered in her mind. The god's calm smile as he once looked down at her, embracing her when she was adrift in darkness. "You are still mine, Filvis. Even the monster within you, I will accept." Those words once made her cry—not from happiness, but because there was someone who didn't push her away even after seeing the stains on her soul.
Filvis knew Dionysus was using her. She knew all that kindness was just a rope binding her tighter, making her an obedient weapon. And yet... her heart trembled every time the god touched her shoulder or called her name in a soft voice. There was love there, a dark and degrading love, which made her continue to follow Dionysus even though she knew the path she walked only added to her sins.
So she kept coming to this orphanage, sitting before that widow, listening to her laments, like a small attempt to silence Ein—and to prove, even if just for a moment, that she could still choose to be the "clean" Filvis. But in her heart, she knew, if Dionysus called for her tonight, she would still come. Still obey. Still be in love.
But the mask Filvis wore—the friendly smile she practiced relentlessly in front of the mirror, the tone of voice she forced to sound warm—instantly cracked when her ears caught that voice.
"Filvis?"
The tone of that call made her body tense. Slowly, she turned her head, and in the doorway, she saw that figure: a young man with red hair, standing with wide eyes and a slightly surprised face. Shirou Emiya.
Filvis's heart raced, not from fear—but because guilt gripped her more strongly than Ein's grip on her mind. Quickly, she lowered her hood, hoping the shadows could hide her expression. Then, with a reflex that had become instinct, she turned, her feet ready to step away.
She and Shirou both carried past wounds. Both were remnants of tragedies that had torn their lives apart. The difference was, Shirou stood tall, using his guilt as fuel to help others. He walked the path of a hero, a brightly shining route. Whereas herself? Filvis looked at her own hands, feeling heavy as if still covered in blood. She was nothing more than Dionysus's dirty tool, bound by sin, sinking in mud she could never clean.
Don't look at him. Don't let him see you like this.
But before she could leave the room, a faint voice from behind stopped her.
"Miss Filvis... don't go..."
The widow she had been accompanying looked at her with wet eyes, pleading. The woman's fragile fingers tried to grasp the edge of Filvis's robe, as if afraid the figure who had been coming to offer a little comfort would vanish forever.
Filvis's steps halted. Her heart shook.
In the corner of her vision, Shirou still stood silently, watching her back without judgment, just... watching.
Why did he have to be here? Why did he have to see me at my most vulnerable like this?
Filvis bit her lip. In her chest, two voices fought: Ein's voice mocking her—Run. You don't deserve to stand here. You're a monster—and the widow's pleading voice, begging her to stay.
A suffocating feeling filled her chest. She remembered Dionysus's words, the god's smile as he looked at her with intoxicating affection: "You are still mine, Filvis."
Filvis clenched the edge of her robe, her body trembling. "Sorry..." she murmured almost inaudibly, not just to the widow, but to whomever—perhaps to Shirou, perhaps to herself.
Yet she remained standing, unable to leave yet. The widow's faint voice had stopped her steps more powerfully than even Dionysus's chains of command.
The receptionist, who had also been standing near the door, finally broke the tension.
"Miss Filvis, you've come back," she called in a warm tone, as if welcoming an honored guest.
That voice made Filvis start slightly. With a slow movement, she turned, trying to suppress the tremble in her voice. "Y-yes... I... came," she answered faintly, her eyes downcast, trying to avoid Shirou's gaze, which still felt piercing from behind. Her cheeks flushed slightly, not from embarrassment, but because she was struggling hard to hold her emotions from leaking out in front of them.
The receptionist then stepped closer with a happy face. "Coincidentally, I've bought the ingredients you requested last week. So, are you cooking for tonight?"
Filvis's fingertips still gripped the edge of her robe, with clear hesitation on her face. Part of her wanted to refuse—to escape the gaze of the red-haired young man standing just a few steps away.
But before she could say anything, another voice interrupted.
"I can help."
Filvis looked up, her eyes widening as she saw Shirou step forward with a gentle expression. There was no suspicion, no judgment, just a simple sincerity that somehow made her chest feel tight.
"I don't mind joining in the cooking," Shirou continued with a small smile. "Two people will get the work done faster, right?"
Filvis's gaze wavered. How can he still look at me like this, she thought. If he knew who I really am—what I've done—he would surely stay away. Yet the young man just stood there, offering sincerely, as if believing she was still worthy of standing in the same kitchen as him.
Shirou, on the other hand, just looked at Filvis calmly. In his heart, he sighed softly. She must have her own reasons for being here. It's not my right to force her to talk. It's enough for me to be here, helping a little if I can.
Seeing the two of them, the receptionist looked pleased. "In that case, I'll prepare the ingredients, you two wait a moment, okay." She then left for the small storage room outside, leaving Shirou and Filvis standing alone in a suddenly quiet atmosphere.
Filvis bit her lip, then, in a voice almost inaudible, said, "You... don't need to trouble yourself..."
"It's no trouble at all," Shirou replied lightly, his voice so simple yet calming. "Besides, I already promised someone I'd help this orphanage. If I can do it with someone I know, wouldn't that be better?"
Filvis fell silent. Those words felt like both a knife and a medicine. Making the wounds in her chest ache, but also soothing, because Shirou still considered her someone he could trust.
Not long after, light footsteps were heard again from the direction of the hallway. The receptionist appeared with both hands full, carrying a basket filled with fresh ingredients — vegetables, meat, and bread.
"Here, this is everything you need. Please use them as you like," she said, placing the basket on the kitchen table.
Shirou immediately rolled up the sleeves of his tunic and began deftly arranging the ingredients. "Alright, let's get started."
Filvis watched him for a moment before joining in to help. The kitchen was simple: a long wooden table, a stone stove lit with fire, a half-empty spice rack. But the atmosphere inside felt warm as the two began to work. Shirou chopped vegetables with quick movements; the sound of the knife hitting the cutting board was almost inaudible.
Filvis, who was usually hesitant around others, quietly observed. He... is really used to doing this, she murmured inwardly. The way Shirou mixed spices, stirred the soup, and checked the roasting meat made her understand why Lefiya often talked about how delicious Shirou's cooking was. This is why Lefiya was willing to wake up early just to help Shirou prepare breakfast for the Loki Familia.
Filvis unconsciously smiled faintly as she helped arrange vegetables on plates. There was a strange tranquility working beside Shirou—as if the world's hustle and bustle and the evil whispers from her other side subsided for a moment.
It didn't take long for their cooking to be finished. The fragrant aroma of vegetable soup and roasted meat filled the kitchen air. Together, they carried the dishes out and distributed them. First, they headed to the nursing home. The elderly who had been waiting greeted them with tired yet happy smiles. Shirou bowed deeply, handing out bowls one by one while saying, "Please eat while it's warm."
After that, they went out to the yard, meeting the homeless people gathered near the building. Seeing those weary faces smile just because of a bowl of soup made Shirou feel his heart warm, though their smiles felt bittersweet to him.
The receptionist accompanying them explained, "No need for the orphanage, Mrs. Maria has cooked for the children as usual."
Filvis stood a little further away, watching Shirou from the edge of the shadows. Her eyes dimmed as she saw Shirou's expression, smiling at everyone who received food. That smile was so gentle, but in Filvis's eyes, she could see how that smile was just like her own—fake, used to cover their once-shattered hearts.
Shirou's eyes, though gentle, always held a shadow. A shadow similar to her own—the shadow of a guilt that never disappeared.
So he's like me too... Filvis clenched her hands tightly. Unlike me, His smile is empty... but not for himself. He isn't pretending to be holy, not to feel virtuous or atone. That smile... is for others. To warm their hearts, even though he is freezing inside.
And that made Filvis's chest ache, yet feel warm at the same time. She was seeing something she desired but never dared to reach.
Finally, their steps stopped before the blind widow, who sat on a rickety bench near the building's entrance. Though her eyes stared emptily into space, her face looked calm, as if waiting for something.
Shirou crouched down, offering a warm bowl in his hands. "This is for you, Ma'am. I hope it warms you up."
The woman felt around slowly, her fingers touching the rim of the bowl, then her face turned towards Shirou. A relieved smile appeared on her lips. "Thank you, Son..." She inhaled the soup's aroma, then, without hesitation, placed the bowl on her lap and, with her other hand, felt for Shirou's head. His red hair was tousled by her loving touch.
"Mm, this boy is so kind," she whispered. "Many people out there have forgotten about our existence. But you... You came bringing warmth."
Shirou answered with his eyes downcast. "I'm not that good. Actually... Filvis is better than me. She's the one who always comes here before."
Those words made the blind woman smile wider, her head turning as if searching for Filvis's direction. "That's true. Miss Filvis has come often, keeping me company, listening to my complaints. That girl has a gentle heart. She... is my savior."
Thud—
Filvis, standing just a few steps behind Shirou, felt her chest being squeezed. Those words of praise stabbed deep, not as medicine, but as poison. No... I am not your savior. I am the cause of the calamity that took your husband.
Her fingers trembled as she gripped her hood. If only she knew the truth... if she knew that these hands are stained with her family's blood... she would surely curse me. Not praise me.
A faint smile formed on Filvis's face, a smile that was bitter, fragile, and full of falseness. In her heart, Ein's voice whispered mockingly:
"You wretch. You stand before the widow who lost her husband because of you, and still hope for that praise?"
Filvis lowered her head, trying to suppress the pain increasingly constricting her chest. But her gaze momentarily stopped on Shirou, who was still crouched before the woman, receiving a loving caress as if he himself were an orphan who had found a mother figure again.
Is it... possible that I could be like him too.