(Titus's (Lot's) POV)
The weight of my confession hung heavy in the air, a thick smoke choking out the laughter we usually shared. Instead of words, I offered Artoria a window into my soul, letting her glimpse the jagged shards of my memories. The pain, the struggle, the desperate gamble to rewrite a destiny carved in stone. And I confessed the cruelest truth of all: how I stole her crown, her birthright to be the perfect King Arthur.
"I don't know what to say," she whispered, her voice barely a tremor.
I understood. If I were in her shoes, faced with the wreckage of a life lived and the burden of a stolen destiny, I'd be speechless too.
"But," she continued, her chin lifting with a newfound resolve, "the childhood I had, the person I am now... I wouldn't trade it for anything. King Arthur might have lived the dream every child craves, a hero's life, a perfect king. But I wouldn't be me. I wouldn't have had your love, your guidance. Even if my other self sees me, I know she wouldn't envy me. She'd be grateful." A smile, genuine and bright, bloomed on Artoria's face. "So, unkie, thank you. Please, don't blame yourself for anything."
Her words washed over me, a balm on the raw wounds of guilt and regret. Yes, Artoria Pendragon, the one destined to be King Arthur, had longed to undo everything, to rewrite history. That's why she'd made the pact with Alaya, becoming a counter guardian, a warrior against fate itself.
But this Artoria, my Artoria, saw the beauty in the life she'd carved for herself. She saw the love in Morgan's eyes, the laughter that echoed in Camelot's halls, the strength she'd forged in the crucible of adversity. And for that, I was eternally grateful.
Yet, a shadow lingered at the edges of this newfound peace. The book lay open on the table, a chronicle of the alternate history, the Arthurian legend as it could have been.
"In a few years," I said, my voice tinged with sadness, "I want you to spread these stories. Not here, not within Morgan's reach. Across the sea, in Europe, let these legends take root."
Artoria's eyes widened. "But... this is awful! How could I ever..."
She was right, of course. The Morgan she knew, the woman who raised her with unwavering love, was a far cry from the villain painted across these pages. Morgan Le Fay, the sorceress consumed by ambition, a shadow cast across King Arthur's legend. The truth was far more nuanced, Morgan Pendragon, my wife, a queen who united Britain not with a magic sword, but with a steely heart and a cunning mind.
The ink on the pages tasted like ash in my mouth. The disgust mirrored my own, yet... this world was a fragile dream. The moment I drew my final breath, a "calamity" would sweep across Britain, leaving nothing but ruin. A twisted fate woven by the Nasuverse, a world where heroes and villains danced to the whims of unseen puppeteers.
And then there was the problem of the Holy Grail War. Artoria Saber, summoned in the fourth war, couldn't exist without King Arthur's legend. Without it, the 1994 timeline, a fragile thread already, would unravel, leaving this 424 AD a mere phantom, forgotten and erased.
The only way to save this reality, to preserve the legacy I'd helped forge, was to create the legend of King Arthur. Not as a heroic spirit, but as a Phantom Servant, a manifestation of the stories whispered across the lands.
In the Nasuverse, truth mattered less than the echo of a legend. The deeds, the ideals, the very essence of the king would live on, even if the details were shrouded in myth.
"But why me?" Artoria's voice cracked, tears welling up in her eyes. "Why not you...?" Her voice trailed off, a terrified whisper, "Please, don't tell me..."
I met her gaze, a sad smile playing on my lips. "Artoria, you're strong. Not because of some grand destiny, but because of your own will, your own fire. Even without me, without Merlin, you would have become something extraordinary, something Britain has never seen." I reached out, gently stroking her hair. "And that's why I ask you to do this. Artoria, only you can tell this story."
From a detached perspective, it seemed cruel. Artoria could live a happy life, oblivious to the looming doom. Morgan could continue her reign, loved and respected.
But I couldn't let this world fade into oblivion. I wanted the legends to sing of Morgan, the queen who brought peace, the queen who defied fate with her bare hands.
It was just my selfish wish.
"Uncle, I don't like this…! You're being so unfair…!" Artoria's teary eyes conveyed her unease, sensing where things were heading.
I wrapped her in a comforting embrace, allowing her to release her frustration. From that moment on, she avoided me altogether.
---
Late at night, my eyes flickered open mid-sleep. Morgan lay peacefully beside me, her back turned.
Gently, my hand slipped beneath her blouse, cradling her ample breast. I planted a brief kiss on Morgan's cheek, earning a subtle smile from my wife. My attention then shifted to her belly, where I bestowed kisses on the life growing inside.
Morgan, two months pregnant, stood as the third woman carrying my child. Despite the lingering tremors from the loss of my previous two children, this time, I was determined to safeguard the life within her.
The crisp wind sang through the fabric of my robe as I materialized atop the hill overlooking Camelot. Below, the city pulsed with life, a testament to the future I'd so painstakingly sculpted. Turning, I found Merlin beside me, his silver hair catching the fading moonlight.
"So, Merlin," I rasped, the weight pulling at my voice, "how fares Britain's tomorrow?"
His smile, always tinged with mischief, softened at my question. "Brighter, grander than even my wildest dreams. Your gambit, it bore fruit beyond comprehension."
Relief washed over me, a tide pushing back the years of doubt and sacrifice. "No anger? No fury for twisting the tapestry of fate?"
He chuckled, a low rumble that echoed in the wind. "Humanity, that's all that ever mattered to me. While men walk the earth, breathe and dream, there is always hope. Every tale needn't be steeped in the bitter wine of tragedy."
I knew, of course, that it wasn't just humanity that garnered his favor. Incubus by nature, he was only worried for the masses. As long as humanity survives, he survives.
"But you," he mused, the amusement fading from his eyes, "you've become the very thing you once scorned. A hero, sacrificing self for the greater good."
Upon hearing those words, my mood soured. I longed for a happy ending, yet the nature of this mission and my solemn oath to avoid seeing my children until I vanquished the Whore of Babylonia made such a conclusion impossible.
"Heh," I said, conjuring a phantom memory of Morgan's radiant smile, "for her, for her dream... there's nothing I wouldn't do."
Merlin nodded, a hint of sadness in his eyes. "This, then, is farewell. May your blade carve a beacon of hope into the very fabric of this world."
With a final wink, he dissolved into scattered petals, leaving me alone.
"I should create a dramatic exit spell of my own, something flashy."
I had once designed a spell like to Odin's, envisioning crows swirling around me, but I discarded the concept.
Sighing, I gazed at the towering walls in the near distance. In the Nasuverse, these walls were crafted by fairies, but this time, they bore the mark of human craftsmanship. While not on par with the original Camelot walls, they formed a sturdy stronghold. Another one of Morgan's legend.
"Time to handle this one last calamity."
---
(3rd Person's POV)
Queen Morgan, her six-month pregnant frame heavy with the weight of both child and crown, strode the cobble-stoned streets of Camelot. A tempest raged within her, a whirlwind of fury and grief spun from the plague that had ensnared her kingdom. This scourge, a viper slithering from the Saxon lands, had snatched the lives of countless Britons, leaving their homes hollow and their families broken.
Every twist and turn of the path she walked brought her face to face with the tragedy. Men, women, and children, their faces etched with pain, succumbed to the insidious grip of the illness. The first whispers of sickness began with gnawing stomach pains and relentless diarrhea, draining their strength before claiming their lives.
"Those damned Saxons!" Morgan roared, her voice echoing through the desolate streets. The injustice gnawed at her like a ravenous beast. She had offered them sanctuary, a chance to prove their worth, and in return, they had brought this pestilence to her doorstep. The injustice festered, poisoning her very being.
Yet, amidst the desolation, a flicker of light emerged. As Morgan walked, she witnessed a scene that defied her grief. Britons and Saxons, once divided by centuries of animosity, stood shoulder to shoulder, tending to the sick and offering solace to the afflicted. No longer were they adversaries, but a single tapestry woven with the threads of shared humanity.
Her gaze fell upon a young boy, a Saxon by his features, cradling a frail Briton in his arms, his eyes brimming with tears. A Briton, his weathered face etched with the scars of countless battles, wiped the brow of a Saxon woman, his touch gentle as a summer breeze. In that moment, Morgan's rage ebbed, replaced by a bewildering realization.
"This," she whispered, a tear tracing a path down her cheek, "This is the Camelot I have forged." It had been her vision, a kingdom where the embers of old hatreds would be extinguished, where Britons and Saxons would stand united, not by force, but by the bonds of shared humanity. In the throes of her anger, she had forgotten the seeds she had sown, the fragile shoots of unity that had begun to sprout amidst the ruins of conflict.
With renewed purpose, she set her sights on the cathedral, the very place where she had once vanquished Vortigern. But now, it stood transformed, a haven for the afflicted, its hallowed halls echoing with the murmurs of healing.
As she reached the threshold, a figure clad in black, a long-beaked mask concealing his features, emerged from the shadows.
"Milord!" Morgan exclaimed when she picked the sight of her husband King Lot, his face drawn with worry.
Before she could approach him, a young knight, his Saxon lineage evident in his features, stepped forward, his voice firm despite the tremor in it.
"Your Majesty," he bowed, "I must beg your forgiveness, but you cannot enter."
Morgan's fury flared anew. "What audacity! Do you forget who I am? The Queen of Britain, the one who offered you refuge?"
The knight shook his head solemnly. "You are our beloved Queen of Britain. I deserve the harshest punishment. However..." With a swift motion, he removed his helmet, revealing a young teen with tears glistening in his eyes. "You could take our lives, and we wouldn't retaliate. But we can't let you continue down this path. You provided us with food and shelter, even though we are your adversaries. Our love for our queen compels us to prevent this life from taking root within you. If death can impede your journey, then let it be so."
His words resonated throughout the hall, echoed by the chorus of Saxon and Briton soldiers who stood shoulder to shoulder, their faces etched with unwavering determination. Morgan's heart, hardened by rage and grief, softened. She saw in their eyes the reflection of her own vision, a Camelot where unity had blossomed from the ashes of animosity.
In that moment, she understood. The plague might have ravaged her kingdom, but it had also revealed the strength of the bonds she had forged. This tapestry of unity, woven with the threads of shared humanity, was her true legacy, a testament to the Camelot she had dreamt of and the one that would rise from the ashes.
And so, Queen Morgan, her anger quelled, stood tall amidst her people, united in their defiance against the plague. For even in the darkest hour, the embers of hope flickered, a testament to the enduring power of unity.
But the worry still simmered beneath the surface of Morgan's outward calmness. She knew her fairy blood protected her from the plague's grasp, but what about King Lot? He, with his gruff charm and unwavering loyalty, was all too human, all too susceptible. As she watched him tend to the sick, his broad back hunched over a coughing patient, a knot tightened in her gut.
"Hey, wifey!" His voice boomed across the room, momentarily breaking her trance. Relief washed over her like a warm tide, only to be met with the stern faces of the Saxon knights again blocking her path.
"I have ordered them to keep you away," King Lot said.
"But milord, I..."
"Morgan, please, just this once." Lot approached, his usually cheerful face etched with concern. He removed his mask, the scent of disinfectant clinging to him, and a small smile tugged at the corners of his lips. "We've got a cure, love. Don't you worry. Just a few more days here, then I'll be back in your arms."
Morgan knew she could force her way past the guards, but her responsibility as Queen weighed heavily. Her life, the life of their unborn child, was too precious to risk in this fetid cauldron. With a sigh that tasted like defeat, she nodded.
"Look after yourself, milord," she whispered, her voice thick with unshed tears. "I'll be waiting for you."
"Aye, I will," he murmured, his own voice strained. "Do the same, my love."
Their fingers brushed in a fleeting touch, igniting a fiery blush across Morgan's cheeks. She couldn't help but notice the averted gazes, the flushed faces of the knights witnessing their exchange. They, it seemed, weren't immune to the sparks of love, even in the midst of this grim ordeal.
Days bled into nights, each sunrise a cruel reminder of King Lot's absence. One moonlit night, as she gazed at the silver orb painting her chamber in its ethereal glow, she felt a presence. Before she could react, strong arms enveloped her, the familiar scent of earth washing over her like a balm.
"Milord!" She cried, burying her face in his chest.
"Whoa, there, easy," he chuckled, a hint of his usual boisterousness peeking through. "Think of the wee one, my queen."
But Morgan didn't pull away. This embrace, after the agonizing separation, tasted like sunlight after a storm.
Yet, as she clung to him, a subtle discordance snagged at her senses. The warmth of his body was familiar, the strength of his arms unchanged, but something felt…different. A whisper beneath the surface, an anomaly she couldn't quite pinpoint.
"Milord," she finally managed, pulling back slightly, her eyes searching his. "You…you feel different."
Lot chuckled again, a nervous edge to it. "Just the medicines, love. Herbs, poultices, enough to cure a dragon's breath! One kiss now and you'll be smelling myrrh for a fortnight."
Morgan detected a foul scent emanating from King Lot's mouth, but she chose not to dwell on it. What mattered most was her husband's well-being, and she felt relieved that he was alright.
However, a lingering unease persisted within Morgan.
---
Weeks after the plague, Camelot, or rather Britain, was on the road to recovery thanks to King Lot's swift actions. While the land still mourned the loss of hundreds, the casualties were far fewer than anticipated. Remarkably, no new cases had emerged. Morgan busied herself happily organizing orders, grateful that Camelot had weathered such a trial.
According to fortunetellers and her own divinations, Britain had been fated to suffer a calamity leading to the demise of every Briton. Yet, not only had they survived, but they had also developed immunity to the diseases. Morgan felt assured that her Britain would now thrive in peace.
Amid her work, Morgan noticed Artoria looking unwell—pale, with dark circles under her eyes. Concerned, she inquired about Artoria's condition. It seemed Artoria had been deeply affected by something beyond the rejection she had experienced.
"Sister… do you know what happened to Uncle?" Artoria's weak voice held an air of distress as her gaze remained lowered.
"Milord is fine. He's resting, a bit fatigued from days without rest," Morgan reassured her, confident in King Lot's well-being after their recent meeting.
"Sister…" Artoria's tone shifted. "Uncle is a deceiver. He employs the same illusion magic as Merlin."
Morgan's eyes widened at the mention of illusion magic, her heart racing. Without hesitation, she dashed from the hall, heedless of anyone in her path. Two knights attempted to halt her outside King Lot's chamber, but she, despite her pregnancy, easily overpowered them, rushing into the room. There, she saw King Lot lying on the bed. With trembling legs, she approached him.
"Oh, Morgan, why the rush? What's the matter?" King Lot's casual tone didn't match Morgan's urgency.
Ignoring his words, she cast a disturbance spell. Suddenly, the image of the robust King Lot shattered like a mirror, revealing nothing but a skeletal figure beneath the illusion.
===
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