(3rd Person's POV)
In the year 420 AD, within the heart of Camelot, amidst the resounding clash of swords, stood the imposing figure of Vortigern, draped in dark armor. He surveyed the unfolding battle between himself and Morgan Pendragon with a sense of impending defeat. As someone designed to expel the inhabitants of Britain and transform it into a realm of chaos, Vortigern could only curse his impending downfall.
His strategy to rally the Saxons against the complacent Britons had crumbled. The army amassed by Morgan Pendragon was far from ordinary; within a mere decade, she had forged a force akin to the mighty Roman Empire, unleashing its full might upon Camelot.
Yet, treachery had not solely gripped the hearts of the Britons; the Saxons, too, had turned against Vortigern. They began to covertly aid Morgan, swiftly abandoning Camelot within a day, leaving behind a mere handful of men to defend the fortress.
"I SHALL NOT FALL!" Vortigern's thunderous roar reverberated across the battlefield as he charged forward. Each swing of his colossal sword cleaved through scores of Britons until he abruptly halted before a diminutive figure.
"Vortigern, this is where your demise awaits!" declared a figure barely twelve, with blond hair and features reminiscent of Morgan Pendragon.
"So Morgan stoops to employing children in battle? Pitiful," scorned Vortigern.
"Never call my sister pathetic! I am Artoria Pendragon, Queen Morgan's sister! Remember this name, for I shall destroy your ass with my sword!" Artoria proclaimed, brandishing her staff with determination, clearly embodying the guise of a sorceress.
"That's a staff," Vortigern raised a skeptical brow.
"It's my sword! It's my sword of promised victory," Artoria insisted.
Vortigern couldn't help but question the child's mental state.
Despite her appearance, Artoria exuded an air of magical prowess. Yet Vortigern dismissed her as inconsequential. He swung his sword, intent on dispatching this young nuisance and seeking out Morgan.
"Underestimate me at your peril!" Artoria bellowed. Her staff emitted a lackluster glow as she swung it horizontally towards Vortigern. "Feel the force of my love for my unkie!"
"Uncle what?! GUHH!!" Vortigern couldn't question further as the small staff collided with him like a bulldozer.
In an instant, Vortigern's armor and blade shattered like glass as he was propelled like a bullet through the battlefield.
BAM! BAM! BAM! BAM!
Trees, structures, and anything in his path crumbled before he finally came to rest before a cathedral.
"Cough* Guah!" Vortigern wheezed, expelling a mouthful of blood as he struggled to raise his battered form.
What in the world possessed that small girl with such astounding power? Who on earth is this 'Uncle'?
As Vortigern pondered, the sound of small footsteps reached his ears. Lifting his gaze, he beheld the figure of a woman. Clad akin to Vortigern in dark armor, she carried a long spear and a shield of similar dark make.
While the armor and weapons seemed ordinary, the woman exuded an unmistakable aura—a dominance and majesty that enveloped her presence. Vortigern keenly sensed it; there was no doubt in his mind—this was Morgan Pendragon.
"Ha! A fairy guiding humanity to the age of men? Such jests!" laughed Vortigern, though his resolve held firm despite his mirth.
"However my reign may unfold, it is apparent that your tales shall cease, Vortigern," declared Morgan, her words tinged with a tone of finality as she unveiled her visage by removing her helmet.
Despite her status as the sole sovereign of Britain, the woman was a visage of ethereal beauty, an allure impossible to resist upon first glance. Even one who had forsaken his human essence, like Vortigern, found himself captivated by Morgan, his own niece. Her silver locks and piercing cold blue eyes, coupled with her formidable demeanor, possessed the power to enchant even the most formidable creatures upon this earth.
"Pfft! Ha ha ha! By the lords of the land, what spectacle unfolds before me? Even ruffians now dare to issue threats!" mused Vortigern aloud, though Morgan maintained her silence.
"Now, Morgan, cornered as I am, it appears I have no recourse," muttered Vortigern, a surge of newfound energy beginning to course through him.
Like every Briton, Vortigern was bestowed with an arcane energy, a force destined to engulf all of Britain—a looming menace.
SWING!
Vortigern widened his eyes as he witnessed Morgan unsheathing her sword, the sight blurring into a swift flash.
"Vortigern, do you truly believe I would stand idly by for you to evolve into a more formidable foe?" Morgan's tone remained frigid as she spoke.
Vortigern remained unaware until his gaze shifted. He witnessed his own head separating from his body, rolling directly to rest at Morgan's feet.
"War rages where my people fight for their lives, and thus, I seek victory, not the thrill of combat. Rest peacefully, for my Britain shall thrive," declared Morgan, a faint smile gracing her lips.
Vortigern appeared to widen his eyes for the final time before the light faded, leaving behind a lingering sadness. While Morgan altered her fate, Vortigern adhered to his. A tragic end, indeed.
On the other hand, Morgan sighed in disappointment.
"I thought I had finally mastered the Art of Beheading. I suppose there's much more practice needed," she lamented. Her husband insisted that mastering this art was crucial for a king to dispatch enemies. She had aimed to impress him by precisely severing Vortigern's head, but her swing had fallen short by 40 degrees.
Nonetheless, she drove her spear directly into Vortigern's neck and then made her way out. The tumultuous battlefield fell silent as all eyes fixated on Morgan's solitary figure.
Morgan smiled triumphantly, hoisting Vortigern's head high into the sky. "Victory!" she proclaimed.
A wave of jubilation swept through the men as they celebrated the hard-earned victory, reclaiming their lands from the invaders. Camelot had been conquered.
---
After the war's aftermath settled into a semblance of peace, Morgan strolled through the camp, engaging in conversation with her knights. However, her thoughts were singularly focused on her husband.
Entering the tent where King Lot was surrounded by attendants, Morgan wasted no time. "Leave," she commanded, and with a single word, everyone in the room saluted and exited the tent.
Alone with her husband, Morgan surveyed the space, ensuring their privacy. Without hesitation, she leaped onto King Lot.
Chew~!
With a moan, she sealed her husband's lips. King Lot, taken aback by the sudden affection, decided to indulge in her love. Maintaining a regal posture, he supported her by the waist and her buttocks.
"Um~!" Morgan moaned, savoring her husband's essence while being caressed. She continued to shower him with kisses until reluctantly parting from his lips.
"My wife seems quite thirsty, hmm?" King Lot smirked, but Morgan remained in her blissful state.
"Milord… huff*. Today, I am going to devour you. As promised, you will be making love to me," Morgan declared, her cheeks flushed.
"Hm! Fine by me," King Lot smirked, squeezing Morgan's buttocks. "But rest for a while. Meet me after your meeting."
Morgan widened her eyes, a radiant smile lighting up her face. Finally, she would be united with her one true love.
---
(Titus's (Lot's) POV)
From the towering castle of Camelot, my gaze surveyed the landscape.
"Sigh~! I don't want to do this but..." I muttered, contemplating the night I was destined to spend with Morgan. The prospect of putting a child in her belly wasn't exactly on the top of my list, but a promise is a promise.
"Heh! Have you seen Queen Morgan's husband?"
"Yeah, that red-headed pig, right?"
The distant murmur of a conversation reached me. Two figures, a merchant and a city lord, engaged in talk. Normally, humans couldn't converse at such a distance, but with the help of a hearing spell, I discreetly gathered information.
As King Lot, I maintained a different persona in public. Only a select few, including Morgan, Artoria, Uther, Merlin, Sir Ector, and his son Kay, knew my true identity. To the rest of the world, I was merely a big, fat, and fortunate old man who lucked into marrying Queen Morgan. Little did they know that I was the one who trained and nurtured Morgan into the formidable ruler that Britain admired today.
I was content with this facade. If I were to reveal even a glimpse of my abilities, it would undoubtedly stir unrest. People would clamor for me to be their king, potentially undermining Morgan's reign. Having served in two kingdoms and possessing a vast array of skills, I understood the cunning nature of people.
Morgan, despite her regal exterior, was no benevolent ruler. She ruled with an iron fist, a dictator in every sense. The Britons, though somewhat improved, were still the same lazy lot. They would undoubtedly seek an alternative to Morgan, someone who would cater to their whims, akin to the legendary King Arthur.
"Hmm, Morgan?" I spotted Morgan strolling past the two individuals. Although they were still engaged in their whispered criticisms, oblivious to Morgan's presence, she keenly observed and heard every word from her vantage point.
As anticipated, she walked by without uttering a single word.
"What the..." It was typical of Morgan to avoid trivial conversations and ignore backbiting. However, this time, it felt different. I couldn't help but feel a twinge of betrayal, questioning the authenticity of her love for me. Even though I had requested her to ignore them, a subtle sadness crept in.
Surprisingly, Morgan extended her indifference to those badmouthing Artoria as well.
Something felt off.
"That's not it. She... she is evolving beyond mere indifference," I mumbled, wide-eyed, realizing a crucial oversight I had dismissed.
With a heavy sigh, I sank onto my bed, my eyes betraying a hint of turmoil. After pondering for a while, I activated my Odin's Eye.
"Damn it, I've messed up." I opened my eyes, a sense of disbelief washing over me. I had committed a blunder in shaping Morgan's character.
The door to my room swung open, revealing Morgan. She entered, trailed by a few maids carrying sweets and wine, setting the mood before giggling and departing, likely aware that their queen might soon conceive an heir for the kingdom. With a soft smile, Morgan slowly shed her thick gown, unveiling an hourglass figure draped in silk fabric.
"What troubles you, Milord?" Her voice was gentle as she settled beside me.
"Morgan, I..." I turned toward her, "there's yet another trial you must undergo."
"What?" Her eyes widened with a hint of anger. I couldn't blame her; my request seemed unreasonable.
It meant I wouldn't be having sex with Morgan.
"Why? I have fulfilled every request, slain Vortigern, and reclaimed my country. What more remains?"
"Something crucial..." I muttered, massaging my temples. It wasn't disappointment in her or myself, but rather a tiny aspect of Morgan's mindset that could grow into a significant problem.
A soft palm touched my arm, and when I turned, I met Morgan's unwavering gaze.
"Then tell me, milord, what test must I endure? I stand prepared to face it."
"You... you're not upset or angry?" I hesitated.
"Humph, I am Morgan Pendragon, the rightful ruler. I'd tear the world apart if it meant proving my affection for you."
Her words brought tears to my eyes. My heart swelled with pride. Wiping my eyes, I pulled Morgan onto my lap.
As I caressed her thighs, I explained, "This is the final test. But this time, you don't have to prove anything to me. It's about the world and yourself, not as the rightful ruler of Britain or the fairy queen Morgan, but as the true Morgan Pendragon."
"I understand. I'll wait then," she said, a tinge of sadness lingering. I chuckled softly as my hand ventured to her neither region. "Oh my~!" Morgan gasped in surprise.
"But it doesn't mean I can't cuddle my dear wife." I smirked, teasingly massaging her womanhood.
Morgan grinned and wrapped her arms around my neck as we lost ourselves in a passionate kiss.
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