A faint golden glow seeped through the heavy curtains, the dim light of morning barely beginning to chase away the night's shadows. Artoria stirred, her senses slowly returning to her as warmth pressed against her back, familiar and steady. Her brow furrowed for a moment before she blinked herself awake, the drowsiness clinging to her like mist over a field at dawn.
The first thing she registered was Arthur's scent—leather, steel, and something uniquely him, a quiet comfort that made her unconsciously relax.
She shifted slightly, realizing she was tucked against his chest, his arm loosely draped over her waist. The steady rise and fall of his breathing against her back was soothing, grounding.
"Arthur," she murmured softly, her voice thick with sleep as she instinctively nuzzled closer, seeking more of his warmth.
He stirred at her voice, but only slightly, his grip unconsciously tightening around her. He was too comfortable—almost too comfortable, she thought.
She frowned slightly, trying to piece together how exactly they ended up like this. Her mind was still sluggish from sleep, but memories from the night before drifted back to her.
Arthur had been with her. She had been exhausted, more so than usual. Her body had felt heavier, her stomach unsettled, her limbs weighed down by a fatigue she could not shake. He must have noticed.
She remembered the gentle way he had gathered her in his arms when she had nearly collapsed after returning from a war council, too stubborn to admit her exhaustion. He had refused to let her argue, had carried her effortlessly to her chambers, and…
He stayed.
A small, contented smile ghosted across her lips. She curled herself just a bit closer, as if afraid that acknowledging his presence would make him disappear. If Arthur had chosen to remain, if he had wanted to stay, then she saw no reason to move from his warmth.
She exhaled softly, closing her eyes again, but a sudden wave of discomfort crept up her throat.
Her stomach churned, and an unwelcome nausea spread through her, pulling her from her peace. She swallowed down the feeling, willing it away, but the sensation didn't fade. If anything, it intensified.
Not again.
Her body tensed. Carefully, she began to extract herself from Arthur's hold, moving slowly as to not wake him. He shifted slightly, his fingers brushing against her arm as if sensing her absence even in his sleep, but he didn't wake.
Once free, she moved quickly, forcing herself to remain steady as she reached the nearby washbasin. She barely made it in time before her body betrayed her.
Her stomach heaved, and she gripped the edge of the basin, her breath ragged as nausea overwhelmed her. It wasn't the first time this had happened.
The past few mornings had been similar, though she had brushed it off as simple exhaustion or the strain of battle. But now, as she knelt there, waiting for the wave to pass, she could no longer ignore the truth that had been creeping into her mind.
This is not exhaustion.
Her hands trembled slightly as she wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. She could still feel the dull ache in her lower abdomen, the unshakable fatigue clinging to her bones.
A quiet rustling behind her made her freeze.
"…Artoria?"
Arthur's voice was thick with sleep, deeper than usual. She heard him shift, the sound of the sheets rustling as he pushed himself up. She squeezed her eyes shut, willing away her lingering nausea before forcing herself to straighten.
"I'm fine," she said, her voice more controlled than she felt.
She turned slightly, her gaze meeting Arthur's. His expression, still softened by sleep, shifted almost immediately to concern as he took in her pale complexion, the faint sheen of sweat on her forehead.
"You're not fine," he countered, already moving to stand.
Artoria turned away, trying to regain control of herself. "It will pass. There is no need for concern."
But Arthur wasn't convinced. He was beside her before she could move, his hand pressing lightly against her back, grounding her.
"This has been happening for days, hasn't it?" he asked, his tone gentle but firm.
Artoria's silence was answer enough.
A faint chill lingered in the air as dawn's golden light seeped through the heavy curtains. The world outside was silent, but within these chambers, a storm was brewing—one of uncertainty, fear, and fragile hope.
Artoria knelt on the cold stone floor, gripping the edge of the washbasin as her body trembled from the aftershocks of nausea. Her breath was ragged, her mind a whirlwind of thoughts she dared not voice aloud. She did not need to turn to know Arthur was behind her—his presence, steady and unwavering, was something she had come to recognize even in her weakest moments.
"Artoria…" Arthur's voice was low, soothing. A call of reassurance. He knelt beside her, placing a warm, steadying hand on her back. "Remember, I am with you."
Artoria exhaled shakily, the weight of his words sinking deep into her heart. She closed her eyes, feeling the sting of tears welling up, and before she could stop herself, she leaned into him. His warmth, his strength—it was grounding.
"Arthur… I know," she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper.
For a moment, neither spoke. She felt the rise and fall of his breathing, the silent comfort in the way he held her without hesitation. Then, at last, the question she had been dreading surfaced.
"What are we going to do?" she asked, her voice breaking. "These symptoms… these ailments… it could only mean one thing. Could I truly be—?" Her breath hitched. The word caught in her throat as if saying it aloud would make it all too real.
Arthur did not answer immediately. She turned her head slightly to look at him, and she saw it—the flicker of conflict in his gaze, the way his lips pressed into a thin line as if weighing something far heavier than simple confirmation.
Then, with quiet resolve, he reached out—not with his hands, but with his very essence.
"Gaia," he whispered internally, invoking the power he rarely called upon. As the Sword of Selection, the world's chosen protector, he held an Authority unlike any other—a connection to the will of the Earth itself. He reached into that bond now, seeking the truth, not for himself but for her.
Please… let me see the truth within her. Let me see the life she carries.
The response was immediate. A whisper of acknowledgment from the world itself. And then, clarity.
Arthur opened his eyes, his breath caught for the briefest moment as his vision shifted—not to the physical, but to the essence of life itself. He placed a gentle hand on Artoria's lower abdomen and activated his Divine Protection of Life Perception. A soft warmth radiated beneath his touch, and there—like a faint flicker of a candle in the wind—he saw it.
A life.
Small. Fragile. But undeniably there.
His throat tightened. He had not allowed himself to hope—not truly—but now there was no denying it. He looked at Artoria, his gaze softening as a small, genuine smile touched his lips.
"You truly are…" he exhaled, voice laced with something between awe and fear. "Artoria, you are with child."
She stared at him, her breath caught in her throat. The weight of those words pressed against her chest, leaving her momentarily speechless.
Pregnant.
A moment passed before she found her voice, though it was barely above a whisper. "Arthur… I…"
But before she could say more, Arthur gently withdrew his hand and straightened slightly. "I have already asked Merlin to conceal any outward changes," he stated, his voice measured. "No one will suspect anything—not yet."
Artoria's brows furrowed. Something in his tone unsettled her. "Arthur," she said, her voice gaining strength. "This is not a decision you should make alone. This concerns both of us."
His lips parted as if to argue, but then he hesitated. He exhaled slowly, lowering his gaze. "I know," he admitted, his voice quieter now. "And I am sorry. But before we move forward, there is something I need to tell you—something you deserve to know."
Artoria felt a pang of unease. "Arthur…?"
His hands clenched at his sides. He was never one to show hesitation, but now, before her, he looked almost vulnerable. "If you hate me after this, I will accept it," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "But please… do not deny this child what I never had—a real family."
She stepped back, needing distance, needing space to think. Arthur's gaze fell to the floor, as though bracing himself for her rejection.
"We were born of the same womb, Artoria," Arthur said, his voice calm but carrying the weight of something deeply personal.
Artoria blinked, his words settling into her mind like stones sinking into water.
"My parents—our parents," he corrected himself, his lips pressing together briefly, "which I did not know about until we reached the Inner Sea… were Uther Pendragon and Igraine."
Artoria's breath caught in her throat. She had spent her life believing she was Uther's sole heir, the lone child chosen to bear the burdens of the throne. Yet here, in front of her, was undeniable truth—Arthur, standing as both an equal and an unknown piece of her past.
Arthur hesitated before continuing, carefully watching Artoria's expression. "We are twins, Artoria. We were in the womb together…"
Artoria's fingers curled slightly against the fabric of her nightgown, her mind racing. She had always known there was something about Arthur that felt… familiar, a connection deeper than just comrades or even lovers. But this—this was something she had never once considered.
"Twins," she repeated softly, the word foreign on her tongue. She lifted her gaze to meet his, searching for any sign of falsehood, but there was none. Arthur was not one to deceive.
"I'm sorry," he said, quieter now, as though apologizing for something neither of them had control over. "My biological system is completely different from yours, due to my connection to the world and how long I was in the Inner Sea. So you don't have to worry about… their condition."
Their condition. Their child.
Artoria's heart tightened, her mind momentarily pulling away from the revelation of their shared blood to the even greater reality pressing down on her. She was pregnant. There was no denying it now, not when Arthur himself had confirmed it.
She swallowed. "You knew?"
Arthur gave a small nod. "Only because Vivian told me while you were within that door." He exhaled softly, his expression unreadable. "That is one of the reasons why I asked Merlin to conceal any physical changes—to ensure no one in Britain questions the legitimacy of the child."
Artoria stared at him for a long moment. "And you made that decision without me?"
Arthur flinched slightly, but he didn't avert his gaze. "I did. And I don't regret that," he admitted. "But I had my reasons, and I will accept whatever anger you hold toward me." He paused, his voice quieter now. "Just… don't deny this child what I never had. A real family."
Artoria's breath hitched at the raw vulnerability in his words. For all his strength, for all the divine power he carried, Arthur was still human beneath it all. Still someone who had known loneliness just as she had.
She turned away for a moment, processing, feeling the warmth of the candlelight on her skin as her thoughts tumbled over one another.
"…You should have told me sooner."
"I know."
Silence stretched between them, but it was no longer as heavy. Instead, there was something softer in the air, something fragile but not unwelcome.
Finally, Artoria reached out, taking his hand in hers. "We will speak of this again. But for now… stay with me."
Arthur's lips curved slightly, not quite a smile, but something close. He gave her hand a small squeeze. "Always."
—
The grand hall of Camelot was filled with the presence of the Round Table's most trusted knights. The air was heavy with unspoken curiosity as they awaited the return of their King and the Sword Saint. They had all heard whispers of their journey, but it was rare for Artoria to leave Camelot herself unless absolutely necessary.
When the doors finally opened, the gathered knights turned their attention forward as Artoria strode into the room with her usual composed grace. At her side walked Arthur, his presence no less commanding despite his less formal demeanor. They had returned, victorious, as expected.
Kay, ever the boldest among them, leaned slightly forward in his seat. "Your Majesty, how was your trip?"
A lesser knight would have never dared to ask such a casual question, but Kay had always spoken with a familiarity that no one else could afford—not without earning Artoria's displeasure.
The knights' gazes shifted toward their king, expecting the usual curt, pragmatic response.
Instead, what they heard nearly made them question their own ears.
"It was rather pleasant," Artoria said, her tone calm but lacking its usual stiffness. "Arthur made it a rather fun journey."
Fun?
The knights collectively held their breath, exchanging quick glances. Our stoic King had fun?
Their astonishment only deepened when, for the briefest moment, Artoria's expression softened. A faint, almost imperceptible smile crossed her lips before it vanished just as quickly as it had appeared.
Arthur, seated beside her, glanced at her from the corner of his eye, but said nothing. His lips, however, twitched ever so slightly, as if he had caught the moment no one else dared to comment on.
The knights were still digesting what they had witnessed when Artoria, as if sensing the shift in the air, straightened slightly in her seat.
"Enough about my personal affairs," she said, her usual composed expression firmly back in place. "What matters now is the defeat of Vortigern."
The subtle shift in her posture, the return to her usual authoritative tone—it was enough to make the knights quickly gather themselves. They knew better than to dwell on the King's moment of humanity.
"Indeed," Gawain spoke first, clearing his throat slightly as if shaking off his own surprise. "Preparations for the campaign are nearly complete. We await your command."
There was no hesitation in Artoria's nod, but Arthur could see the way her fingers subtly flexed against the fabric of her cloak—an unconscious movement she often made when deep in thought.
Arthur remained silent, letting her command the room as she always did. Yet beneath it all, he could feel it—something unspoken lingering between them. The journey they had taken together had shifted something between them, even if neither had voiced it outright.
Artoria's piercing emerald gaze swept over her assembled knights, her presence exuding the unshakable resolve of a king preparing to lead their forces into battle.
"Our path is clear," she began, her voice even, measured, yet carrying the quiet intensity of command. "Arthur and I will lead the charge through the citadel and engage Vortigern directly."
There was no hesitation in her words, but a flicker of something unspoken passed between her and Arthur. He remained silent, standing at her side like an unmovable pillar, his presence a quiet reassurance. He did not question her decision—not because he blindly followed, but because he understood. They would stand together.
"I want Gawain, Lancelot, Tristan, and Kay to spread our forces," Artoria continued, turning her gaze to her most trusted knights. "Push through the outer defenses and secure the gates. Once you have eliminated all resistance, join us in the citadel."
The knights exchanged looks, processing the order. Kay, ever unafraid to speak his mind, raised an eyebrow. "And what if the battle within the walls proves longer than expected? If you and Arthur reach Vortigern before we arrive?"
Artoria's expression remained unwavering. "Then we will cut him down before you set foot inside."
A ripple of something like pride—perhaps admiration—passed through the gathered knights. It was just like her to declare such an absolute victory, not out of arrogance, but sheer belief in her own ability.
But Arthur, standing beside her, could see the subtleties others might miss—the slight tension in her fingers, the near-imperceptible way her breath deepened after every sentence.
He knew her strength, but he also knew that the recent journey had taxed her in ways she had yet to acknowledge.
"We'll handle it," Arthur finally spoke, his voice calm yet firm. "But if the battle draws out, then we'll hold until reinforcements arrive. There is no need to rush recklessly."
Artoria glanced at him, her eyes briefly meeting his. A silent conversation passed between them—one that only they could understand. She exhaled quietly, almost imperceptibly, before giving a small nod.
"Very well," she conceded.
Kay folded his arms. "Hearing you talk about waiting, Arthur, is like hearing our King claim he had fun." His smirk was laced with amusement, but the underlying concern was evident.
Arthur merely chuckled. "Then you must be hearing things, Kay."
Lancelot, ever the voice of tempered reason, inclined his head toward Artoria. "We will see to it that our forces move as efficiently as possible. You and Arthur must focus solely on Vortigern."
"That is the plan," Artoria confirmed.
Tristan, silent until now, finally spoke, his voice carrying its usual melancholic undertone. "Then I shall ensure that our songs do not become requiems before the battle is won."
A quiet understanding settled among them. The path was set. The battle loomed ahead.
Artoria turned slightly, just enough that Arthur could catch the movement. It was small, nearly imperceptible to the others, but he understood.
Arthur gave her the smallest nod, his gaze steady.
"I will follow wherever you lead," he murmured just low enough for her to hear.
Artoria gave only a slight nod, the only acknowledgment that she had heard Arthur's words. Then, without hesitation, she rose to her feet, her expression once more composed, every inch the King of Britain.
"Inform me when everything is prepared," she ordered, her voice calm yet carrying the authority that left no room for question.
"Yes, Your Majesty," the knights answered in unison, each bowing their heads in respect as she turned and strode out of the chamber, her cape billowing slightly with the movement.
The room remained still for a moment after her departure. Then, Gawain—ever dutiful—spoke up.
"You heard the King. Continue the preparations," he commanded, his tone firm yet lacking the edge of formality he reserved for battle.
"Yes, Sir Gawain!" the knights called before dispersing, their movements swift and practiced.
As the room began to clear, Kay—never one to let an opportunity pass—turned toward Arthur with a smirk that could only mean trouble.
"Well then, oh noble Arthur, the great Sword Saint, care to spoil us with tales of your journey alongside our King?" he teased, arms crossed, eyes gleaming with mischief.
Arthur, who had remained standing in quiet observation, merely raised an eyebrow. "Do you intend to turn it into a grand story, Kay? Perhaps one filled with embellishments and heroics?"
"Of course," Kay replied without missing a beat. "A little exaggeration makes for a better tale."
Before Arthur could respond, a sorrowful sigh interrupted them.
"How sad, Kay," Tristan lamented, his voice carrying its usual melancholic tone. "Perhaps we shall compose a ballad about 'Kay the Seeker, who cannot seek his own troubles yet so eagerly pries into the affairs of others.'"
Kay scoffed. "Oh, hush. Don't tell me you're not the least bit curious about the journey that made our stoic King smile."
At that, the knights who remained subtly shifted their attention to Arthur.
He exhaled softly, shaking his head. "It was a journey," he said simply, as if that was all there was to it.
But Kay wasn't so easily deterred. "A journey that left a smile on his face," he pressed. "That's more than we've seen in awhile."
Arthur fell silent for a moment, his gaze drifting slightly as if recalling something distant, something only he and Artoria had shared.
"He allowed himself a moment of peace," he admitted finally, his voice quieter but carrying a weight that did not go unnoticed. "Perhaps that is all that needs to be said."
Kay's smirk faltered slightly at the sincerity in Arthur's tone.
For all his teasing, he had known Artoria since childhood. He had seen the burdens she carried, the weight of her crown pressing heavily upon her shoulders. For her to smile—even if briefly—was no small thing.
"Tch," Kay clicked his tongue, looking away as if embarrassed by the sudden shift in mood. "Well, that's hardly enough detail for a song, but I suppose I'll allow it."
Tristan chuckled softly. "Perhaps it is a tale best kept between them."
Arthur said nothing, but a knowing look passed through his eyes.
Because for all their teasing, they were right.
"I agree. There is no need to discuss what the King deems personal," Gawain stated firmly, his usual unwavering loyalty evident in his furrowed brow. Though his words were simple, there was a quiet protectiveness in his tone, one that spoke of a knight who would not tolerate unnecessary prying into the affairs of his sovereign.
"I cannot agree more," Lancelot added, his voice composed yet carrying an undercurrent of something unreadable. As always, he was reserved, yet there was a weight behind his words that made it clear he was not just speaking for the sake of it. Whatever had occurred on Artoria and Arthur's journey, it was not something to be picked apart like court gossip.
Kay, however, merely sighed, waving his hand dismissively. "I get it, I get it," he said, though his tone lacked any real frustration. There was a certain fondness beneath his exasperation, the kind only someone who had known Artoria since childhood could carry.
He placed a firm hand on Arthur's shoulder. "Just wanted to check on our King, that's all," he continued, his usual teasing replaced by something more genuine. "I don't want him having any problems because of you."
Arthur tilted his head slightly, glancing at Kay with a raised eyebrow. "Because of me?" he repeated, amusement flickering in his green eyes.
Kay smirked. "Oh, don't play dumb, Sword Saint. You're the only one who could throw off his balance."
Tristan, who had been observing the exchange with his usual melancholic air, shook his head with a soft chuckle. "Even when you mean well, Kay, you have a way of phrasing things most inelegantly," he mused, fingers idly tapping against the hilt of his blade.
"I'm a knight, not a bard," Kay shot back. "And I do mean well."
Bedivere, standing quietly nearby, finally spoke, his voice gentler than the others'. "We all do," he murmured. "But the King has always carried his burdens alone. If something has changed, I do not think we should question it. Instead, we should be ready—for whatever comes next."
There was a brief silence at that.
Despite everything, they all knew Artoria too well. She had never been one to share her struggles, not even with those closest to her. If she had found a moment of solace in Arthur's presence, then perhaps that was something precious, something that should not be dissected by idle chatter.
Gawain gave a decisive nod. "Bedivere is right. What matters now is the war ahead. We have our orders."
Lancelot crossed his arms. "And our duty is to stand beside our King, nothing more."
Kay exhaled, shaking his head. "Fine, fine. I'll let it go." He glanced at Arthur once more, his expression softening just slightly. "Just make sure you know what you're doing, alright?"
Arthur met his gaze, the corner of his lips curving into the faintest of smiles.
"I do."
And though it was a simple answer, something in the way he said it made even Kay pause.
Perhaps, for the first time, there was no doubt in Arthur's voice.
And perhaps, just perhaps, that meant something far more than any of them yet realized.
—----
Arthur moved through the dimly lit halls with measured steps, his boots barely making a sound against the stone floor. The castle was quiet at this hour, the lingering traces of conversation from the knights fading into distant murmurs. As he neared Artoria's chambers, he cast a quick glance around, ensuring that no one was close enough to witness his approach. It wasn't that he was ashamed to be seen entering—rather, he understood that the King's solitude was something sacred. A place untouched by the ever-watchful eyes of knights and vassals.
With that in mind, he slipped inside, shutting the door behind him with careful ease.
His gaze immediately softened at the sight before him.
Artoria lay on the grand bed, her golden hair splayed against the pillow, her form seemingly at rest. But Arthur knew better. Even with her eyes closed, her breathing was too controlled, her body too still. She was not asleep—only pretending to be, perhaps hoping for a moment of peace before duty came knocking again.
He stepped forward, his armored hand reaching out on instinct, his gloved fingers brushing against her cheek. Her skin was cool beneath the leather, the touch gentle yet firm, as if grounding her back to the present.
"How are you doing, love?" he murmured.
Her eyelids fluttered open at that, a flicker of surprise momentarily breaking her usual composure.
Artoria blinked up at him, her expression unreadable at first, though Arthur did not miss the way her lips parted ever so slightly, as if caught off guard by his choice of words.
And she knew that.
"…I am well," she finally answered, her voice steady despite the quiet hesitation in her eyes. "You needn't worry."
Arthur huffed a small breath, a knowing smile tugging at his lips. "You always say that."
Her gaze flickered away for a brief second, but she did not refute him.
His hand remained where it was, his thumb grazing lightly over her cheekbone before he let it fall away, withdrawing as if sensing she would not allow the touch to linger for too long. Artoria did not shy away from him, but she also did not reach for him in return. That was simply who she was. And yet, the way she looked at him in this quiet moment, the way her fingers barely twitched against the sheets as if resisting the urge to move toward him, was enough.
"I only say it because it is true," she added, her tone soft but resolute. "There is no need for concern."
Arthur exhaled lightly, shaking his head. "Perhaps. But allow me the indulgence of worrying for you regardless."
For a moment, silence stretched between them, neither tense nor uncomfortable. Just quiet understanding.
Then, unexpectedly, Artoria's eyes softened—not by much, but enough that Arthur could see it.
"…Thank you," she murmured at last, so quietly it was almost lost to the stillness of the room.
Arthur simply smiled, stepping back, giving her the space she would never ask for but always needed.
As Arthur turned to leave, a voice—quiet yet firm—broke through the stillness.
"Where do you think you're going?"
Artoria's words were soft, almost a murmur, but there was a weight to them that made Arthur halt in his step. Before he could fully register what was happening, a hand—small, yet unwavering—wrapped around his wrist, tugging him back.
Caught off guard, Arthur barely had time to react before he found himself pulled down onto the bed, his body hovering just above hers. His gloved hands caught the mattress on either side of her shoulders, preventing him from pressing his full weight onto her.
"Artoria?" He breathed her name, his cerulean eyes widening in momentary surprise.
The King of Knights simply gazed up at him, an unreadable expression flickering across her face. The ever-present steel in her eyes was still there, but beneath it, something softer lurked—something rare, something she seldom allowed herself to express.
"I want to continue what we started," she said, her voice calm, composed, yet unmistakably intimate.
Her fingers brushed against her own stomach briefly before trailing upward, coming to rest against Arthur's face. The touch was light, almost hesitant, as if she herself was unsure of the gesture. But her fingers lingered, tracing the line of his jaw before settling against his cheek.
Arthur's breath hitched.
"Would you deny me, Arthur?" she asked, the faintest hint of amusement curling at the edges of her lips.
It was not a challenge—not entirely. There was something playful in her tone, but beneath it, a quiet vulnerability.
Arthur swallowed, feeling a sudden tension coil within him, not from hesitation but from the sheer weight of the moment. His hand moved on its own, reaching for the headboard above them. A faint glow flickered from his palm as a pulse of magical energy dispersed through the wood—an instinctive act, reinforcing the privacy of the chamber.
His gaze never wavered from hers.
"Never," he whispered.
And then, without further hesitation, he leaned in, closing the small distance between them.
The kiss was neither desperate nor hurried. It was steady, lingering—a promise rather than a fleeting indulgence. Artoria did not move away, did not pull back; instead, she met him halfway, her fingers tightening slightly against his skin.