Kapitel 83: Chapter 83

For the first time in several months, the din of Camelot grew faint, but Agravain supposed it was only natural. The king was adored by the people, and respected by the Knights alike. With the King's absence, only the chatter of everyday life remained. However, gossip about the Queen helping with state affairs and her capabilities on the battlefield continued as a hot topic among the women in general. Some noble daughters had even gotten the motivation to follow in the footsteps of their brothers and picked up a sword for the first time in their lives.

A feeling of empowerment and change lingered in the air, but such things were irrelevant in Agravain's opinion. All he saw were numbers, and if women decided to take up arms, then that only meant more manpower to throw at the defensive lines spread thin across the country.

What a headache.

Reminding himself of the Kingdom's state of affairs, Agravain pinched the bridge of his nose and rested his elbow over a desk located in his private sector of the castle. Scrolls and parchments were left neatly stacked in rows by the walls aligned with book shelves and storage space. He had no other furniture but the chair and desk he sat on, as he had no need for luxury when there was a job to be done. It was typical of Agravain's studious and meticulous personality.

Gone was the King and the Kingdom's state of affairs now fell entirely onto Agravain's hands. He was managing if barely. Lancelot, Tristian, Gawain, Bedivere, and the other Knights got off easy on border patrol duty, but Agravain was not one to complain to others who were working, no; he was one to complain to others who shirked their responsibilities in order to laze around.

Curse Merlin.

Agravain's expression inwardly tightened into a dark scowl of annoyance, as he did his best to reign in his temper. It would be a tragedy if his anger showed up on his face, and added onto his perpetual frown.

Agravain nearly snapped the feather writing quill in his grip.

Merlin had one job. A single job.

Agravain felt a tug on the foot of his breaches and stared down at the King and Queen's twins who were attempting to climb up his leg.

Merlin had left Artus and Annabel's supervision up to him during the course of the day while the man no doubt found a group of women to woe into bed, the philanderer. What was worse was that Merlin would never fail to be present when the King and Queen checked up on their children through magical means, giving the illusion that he was a diligent caretaker. A vein popped over Agravain's forehead at the thought, but in Artus and Annabel's presence, he could not even vent. Oh, he'd definitely be reporting to the Queen about Merlin's behaviour, and if he embellished a few points then who would know any better? It was his word against Merlin's and that wasn't even a competition.

The thought alleviated a fraction of Agravain's stress, but that was more than enough for him to steady his self-control.

"Stop. Now." He leveled a stern warning towards Artus and Annabel who froze in their actions and peered up at him. "I mean it. I'm busy." He tried to give off an imposing air, but the twins were different from normal one-year-old babies.

An unordinary father and mother would not beget ordinary children. Artus and Annabel merely gurgled at Agravain's attempt to control them and soon set their sights on the numerous documents Agravain had spent hours sorting out.

Outwardly, Agravain didn't react, but his breath hitched in his throat at the prospect of having to do everything over again.

"Fine, you brats. Just climb my leg," Agravain resigned himself to the lesser of the two troubles. He'd just have to do his best to ignore them and think.

Grinning, the twin resumed trying to pull themselves up Agravain's leg despite not having enough strength in their pudgy arms to hoist themselves up any higher than his shins. Failing that, they started gumming on the fabric of his cleaned mantle.

The damp feeling of saliva soaking into his clothes was not something he appreciated.

Don't react to it. It's not worth it. Agravain somehow convinced himself. He'd rather this than the time they'd shat themselves and he was the only one left to deal with it. Agravain shuddered.

He pressed his eyes closed and returned to the matter at hand by focusing his attention on his most recent goal.

Grudging as he was to admit it, but Agravain still inwardly marvelled at the prospective developments Shirou had proposed in his time as King. Roads and infrastructure were prioritized over military developments, and at first, Agravain was skeptical of the approach. They were at war, and the front lines needed a constant supply of rations and equipment. He'd thought that there was no time to focus on secondary matters, but somehow it was effective. Better harvesting techniques made way for increased food yields, and the roads allowed for faster resupply. The best part were the spillover effects.

By focusing on the citizens and the growth of the kingdom, hope for the future emerged in the people constantly under the shadow and oppression of war. Optimism began to spread, and optimism was a powerful tool that counteracted against fear.

Not only were the Knights and soldiers working valiantly to defend the land, but the inhabitants were beginning to make breakthroughs in technology from the insights Shirou provided. Transport wagons were able to carry larger loads through the introduction of metal frames and suspensions to allow for the distribution of greater force.

Camelot was alive and thriving. It was no wonder why the din had died down at the King's departure, and this was why Agravain had to work harder.

No matter Shirou's achievements, Agravain stubbornly believed himself able to do better. He heavily outclassed Shirou in terms of administration, but Shirou defeated him in terms of innovation.

Agravain had prided himself in being the one most adept at aiding Arturia in political and administrative matters, but he'd been feeling his capabilities slipping as of late. This had to be rectified immediately, and he'd do so by allowing Camelot to prosper even without Shirou around.

This was his greatest trial and he vowed that he wouldn't fail. Besides, watching the kingdom grow and develop was pleasant, now if only his mood wasn't about to go to shit in a scant few seconds.

With how enjoyable life had actually been for him in the past few years, it was only now that he was forced to recall the original nature of his position.

The warmth and carefree emotion that had taken years to well up from within Agravain abruptly chilled to the bone.

He watched as a letter sealed shut by a wax insignia with the implied image of a long knife abruptly manifested in front of him. It had been delivered through magic, and almost immediately, Agravain spotted Merlin perking up from where he was trying to seduce a group of maids in the courtyard in view of Agravain's office.

Artus and Annabel stopped in their actions and stared at the letter, but Agravain almost instinctively blocked their view and kept the brats away. Dark magic was imbued over the letter's surface and he did not wish to take the risk. He knew who this letter had come from.

It was nothing more than a reminder, a sign for him to know his place, and yet he couldn't help tensing up. He took the letter in his hand and contemplated as the traces of magic left the letter entirely. Morgan always was a careful witch.

Artus and Annabel stared inquisitively up at him, but it wasn't as if they would be able to understand.

Suddenly, the door of Agravain's office opened after a polite knock.

"Hmm," Merlin hummed while frowning uncharacteristically, his gaze shifting left and right. He may often laze around, but Merlin was nothing if not attentive when it came to the subject of magecraft. This was why Shirou and Arturia had entrusted their children's safety to him.

"Merlin," Agravain deftly stowed the letter away and met the Court Wizard's gaze unflinchingly.

Not feeling anything out of the ordinary in Agravain's office, Merlin reverted to his usual self and grinned sheepishly. "My mistake, sorry for intruding." With that said, Merlin turned to leave.

"Take the brats with you!" Agravain's vein popped as he let loose at one of his sources of frustration.

Agravain's words went in one ear, and out the other. Merlin feigned deafness and quickly left, but Agravain knew that the wizard was now on edge.

Left alone with Artus and Annabel, Agravain once more took out the letter and stared hard at it.

The pieces were slowly gathering one by one for an ambition that had been left to fester for years.

The beginning of the end was at hand, and Agravain was met with only a single choice to make.

What was it that truly mattered?

The emotion brewing in Agravain's eyes faded into a dull monotone as he ripped open the letter and read its contents.

-For the Kingdom.

Whatever it was that Edgar had initially thought Gale had in mind when Gale had first stepped into Edgar's tent, a proposition of peace was not it. He'd expected something more along the lines of a trump card that would reverse and minimize the casualties of the war. It was to be expected, as Edgar clearly understood that there would be no end to conflict unless the locals were defeated or the Saxons died trying.

Even though Gale proposed coexistence and had the backing of a daughter of Hengist, Edgar was not convinced. In the initial Saxon raids, the Saxons had plundered and annexed large plots of land formally belonging to the native Nobility. There was no way that peace could truly reign when it was only in context. Animosity would brew and fester within the hearts of those who'd been forced off of their lands, and war would repeat if not in the current generation, then in the next.

Blood smeared the hands of all Saxon living in occupied territory. Innocent some may be as new immigrants, but it didn't change the history of conflict that the Saxons had with the locals.

There was no way to wash the damage done, or put it behind them.

Edgar was not that naïve to believe in the hearts of people. Hate is a cycle of violence and grief fueled only by personal vengeance. Edgar had realized this point ever since he'd tracked down the killer of his father in the initial Saxon campaign and slaughtered the man in combat with his own hands.

The feeling of satisfaction was fleeting, then came emptiness, and the ability to see what he had done when the sons of the man he'd killed swore revenge before fleeing. In his eyes, he'd seen himself reflected in the figures of the fleeing children. He'd not had the heart to give chase, and it was also the beginning of his drinking habits.

He no longer felt that he had a reason to fight for. Either the war ended by eliminating all resistance from the enemy side, or the Saxons return to their homeland ruled by emerging tyrants and civil strife. Neither option was plausible in Edgar's view and this was why he'd become disillusioned.

Coexistence?

Edgar found himself returning to that one word while idly watching the foam build up on the surface of his untouched mug of beer before him.

What a pile of bullshit.

He was alone sitting with his feet kicked up on his desk in his tent after dismissing Gale and Natalie who began their preparations for the bet. It was to be held outside of the camp, and Edgar had been too lazy to cooperate and personally mobilize his own men for the event, so he'd left it to Gale. All that was required of Edgar was to spectate when the match began.

And that was damn fine with Edgar.

Grumbling to himself, Edgar pushed aside his mug of beer, and for the first time in years, began seriously considering alternatives for the future. On the off chance that Gale did succeed in his plans with Lady Natalie, then what was to happen then? Of course, what was he to do if they failed?

Scratching the ruffle of his scraggily beard, Edgar pulled his feet off of his desk and assumed a proper seated position while frowning.

Laws would have to be implemented, and then there was still the variable of the British King. Should he plan an assassination? He'd already been given a plausible course of action that he'd been constantly putting off, but he digressed. The present matter was a different issue entirely.

It was for the prosperity of the Saxons as a whole.

Edgar knew that the war had to end one way or another, and naivety was not the way to do it. Gale didn't seem the sort to settle loose ends, so in the case that Edgar ended up losing his bet and Gale proved he had the means to make his goal reality, then Edgar would settle everything himself. Hands already smeared with blood could not grow any darker.

Standing up, Edgar moved to the adjacent side of the tent where he kept his war chest, and promptly opened the ancient relic. He'd not properly cared for it in several ages passed, and the marking engraved over it had already faded and splintered. This was a record of his past ambitions and victories kept stored away to remind him of what he once was.

Once more, Edgar opened his war chest and donned his war mantle over the pauldrons of his right shoulder. It fit snuggly, his hands securing it in place with an efficiency that revealed the depth of his experience.

Equipping himself in his old leather armours and staring at his war trophies, Edgar's disposition altered all at once. His stomach had grown larger when last he'd participated in the battlefield, but his muscles remembered the movements. He drew the sword strapped to the tasset on his waist and practiced a few test swings to get the feeling back.

Nodding, Edgar sucked in a long breath and straightened his back. Now then, it was time to see the results of a bet. Win or lose, Gale's arrival had at least allowed Edgar to make up his mind for the future.

Staying on his ass for any longer would net him no result. If he wanted the war to end, then he damn well had to fight for it.

Stepping outside his tent, Edgar's immediate aid dropped the papers in his hands and stared at Edgar as if looking at him for the first time. The pieces of parchment were uplifted by the wind and scattered everywhere, but the aide paid them no attention.

Standing before the aide was the true Edgar Freesia, experienced commander of dozens of skirmishes along the Saxon border. His valiance, though masked by his disillusion had simply remained buried within him until now.

"C-Commander," the aide stuttered out.

"At ease," Edgar patted his aide's shoulder and grinned. The aide stilled in response, seemingly growing short of breath with the realization that the commander had returned.

"Yes, reporting, sir!" The aide saluted and took Edgar's words to heart. "Commander Gale's preparations are ready by the open fields."

They were ready, this quickly? Edgar could not believe it at first. Saxons were a rowdy bunch and his army was no different. Many believed in the honour of battle. One verses all was not a concept that most honour-bound warriors would readily agree with since there was no glory in victory. It would be a pain to convince any Saxon otherwise, and this was the primary reason Edgar had been too lazy to help set up the bet.

What had Gale done and said to allow the army to gather and cooperate so quickly?

Edgar did not know, but it wasn't like it mattered. He'd just have to see for himself. He dismissed his aide and began walking towards the fields were the bet would take place. In the meantime, he took careful note of the growing intensity of the breeze, and the way the rowdiness of the camp was slowly ushered into a noticeable silence.

Strange.

Edgar felt a droplet of water land over his forehead. He wiped it off with the back of a hand and glanced towards the sky.

Rain had come, a storm brewing over the horizon.

Edgar frowned. As the rain began to pour in earnest, he shielded his face with an arm from the heavy breeze and quickly made his way forward. It would be difficult to fight in the rain due to the creation of mud and the chill of wind; therefore, Edgar knew Gale wouldn't want to waste any time.

Edgar's prediction was spot on, as he soon heard the clamor of swords and shields striking together the closer that he came to the field. It only struck him then as odd since he distinctly remembered Gale saying his fighter would be combating against the army bare-handed and unarmoured.

Why would metal be striking against metal in such a case?

As Edgar grew more and more confused, he picked up his pace, reached the field, and then abruptly froze.

What in the Gods names...!

The time had come. The rains were growing fiercer, and the rumbling of the sky ever louder.

Gale had explained to Shirou about the bet he'd made with Edgar Freesia, captain of the current Saxon Army two-hundred strong. He was to fight unarmoured and bare-handed. Both Arturia and Mordred had looked appalled that Gale had made such an agreement without consulting them first, but Gale was in his right to do so.

No Saxon warrior of legend was known to be weak, nor were they known to back down from a challenge of battle. It just so happened that Gale had seen Shirou charge into armies on his own before, and coupled with the impression Gale had of Shirou, the bet had been made with the utmost confidence.

It couldn't be turned down, and it wasn't as if Shirou hadn't prepared with Merlin for such situations to begin with. It was going to be a little early, but if it gained them allies, then it was worth the risk.

Arturia stood with Natalie off to the side, biting down on her lips and forcing down her impulse to fight alongside him. She was feeling sidelined, a completely new experience for her, and it was driving her mad; however, it wasn't yet time for her to act under her guise as a handmaiden. She kept shifting her weight from one foot to the other, and was constantly being whispered to by Natalie who seemed more anxious of Arturia jumping out and blowing her cover than worrying about Shirou. Regardless, it was Shirou's fault for Natalie to possess such a mentality.

The feats Shirou had pulled off in his rise to Kingship were all heard and at times witnessed by Natalie herself.

Mordred stood a distance closer to Shirou compared to Arturia. She was glowering, her expression set into a deep scowl, and her crossed-armed body language signalling that she was ready to lash out at anybody who ticked her off. At first it seemed like she had every intention of starting a brawl, but she soon faltered when he gave her a look of warning. He wasn't blind and knew that she was just concerned for him.

She grunted, rubbing her nose with a finger, but she didn't stop scowling.

Mordred never said it, but it was clear even to Merlin that she'd gotten attached to Shirou. He was her support, her shield to lean on if she ever got overwhelmed or felt endangered. It was almost like a child seeking the safety and attention of a parent.

Would any child stay still at the sight of a father or mother stepping into danger or being belittled? It was the same feeling which Merlin often compared Mordred to whenever she lost her temper at any nobles who dared disrespect the King.

Yet, Mordred cared far more about Shirou than she let on with her words and actions. Seeing him going unarmed against an entire army had nearly made her throttle Gale in the face if not for the fact that Arturia looked like she wanted to do the same thing. The two shared a rare moment of understanding and appreciation, but it hardly mattered right now.

Shirou was getting himself into something stupid again, yet Shirou had assured them he'd be fine.

If it really came down to risking his life, then he wouldn't hesitate to save it.

Shirou had learned that his death would bring pain towards those who cared for him. Most of all, he didn't want to see Arturia with such hollow eyes ever again. The only real purpose and drive behind his actions had always been to keep her happy. He couldn't allow himself to lose sight of what mattered in the process of 'the getting there,' anymore.

Shirou calmed his mind and waited for the match to begin. Gale would give the signal at the center and the clash would start. The battle was on a lush field. Shirou stood alone at one side, while Edgar's army stood eagerly on the other. They'd all been lured into fighting on the prospect of defeating Shirou and proving their worthiness.

The only piece of equipment Shirou was wearing was a battle kilt around his waist. The muscles of his legs, arms, and torso were toned and defined by Merlin's magic to the point of myth. He carried no weapons, but in the eyes of all, his body itself was the strongest tool of war.

At the center of the field, Gale raised an arm, and then promptly swung it down.

Match…Start.

All at once, it had begun.

Shirou tensed, watching a crowd of hundreds all charging towards him. He did not panic. He did not yield. Instead, he nodded towards Mordred.

It was time for Mordred to do her part as Merlin had explained.

Receiving Shirou's signal Mordred put aside her reservations regarding the bet and stood up straight. The wings on her back imbued with magic unfurled and expanded up towards the sky. Feathers began dancing within the eye of an overhead storm. All at once, Mordred seemed to be floating, pale light emitting from her wings and permeating outwards to shroud the air above Shirou.

Mordred's armour was not just for show. It was imbued with an Incubus's illusion magic similar to a succubus's charm. It was a magic built on dreams and the imaginations of the beholder.

"Tiwaz," the word was uttered from Mordred's lips.

Victory. The Nordic Rune of Honour.

Strength was everything in Nordic mythology. It gave prestige, charisma, and status. The representation of such attributes was not believed to be shown through merit, but through favour. Only those who were worthy may enter the great hall of warriors escorted by the hands of a Valkyrie.

Merlin's magic took effect upon the captivated crowd.

Light began to shine amidst the chilling squall of rain, and for a moment, it seemed as if Mordred had flown towards Shirou and draped her arms around his neck before fading. Over Shirou's forehead appeared the symbol of Tiwaz.

With Mordred's sudden disappearance, and the image that she invoked with her attire, the phenomenon could only be interpreted for what it was.

Blessings of the Valkyrie be upon you.

To begin with, the Saxons had harboured suspicion about Mordred from the beginning. She was an armoured woman that followed at the side of a warrior, and had now shown that she was some sort of Divine Spirit.

She could only be one of the numerous hands and feet of the Great AllFather watching upon all.

In reality, Mordred was still standing exactly where she was, but dreams were powerful, and the recipients saw only what they imagined they'd seen.

The area fell into hushed whispers, the Saxons charging towards Shirou losing their momentum. But so, what? Outnumbered and fighting alone, Shirou knew that he couldn't waist the opportunity.

He clenched his hands into fists, dug his heels into the ground, and took off into a sprint. He would fight not just as himself, but in a style that Merlin had helped devise in a world of dreams.

The greatest extent of his capabilities belonged to his Tracing; however, that did not mean that he was without options. He himself was a sword, unbending and unfeeling.

He hurled himself forward and directly into the fray.

His body was made out of steel.

He did not dodge when the blows came. He welcomed them with open arms, not knowing just how crazy it looked to his attackers. The axes, spears, and swords, that aimed to lacerate, stab, and eviscerate him were nothing more than decoration in his eyes.

Sparks showered over the ground in a wide arc with the sound of grating metal as bronze eyes narrowed.

A sword was caught between two fingers and crushed in the same grip.

"T-That's not possible," a single sentence was muttered before a large hand grabbed a man's leg and hurled him across the field at three other men, knocking them all unconscious.

Shirou's goal was not to kill. It was to immobilize.

Standing amidst the rain, lightning strikes illuminated his features. It was not just overwhelming strength that won victory, it was intimidation. If the enemy was unwilling to fight, then by default, the battle was already won.

The Saxons tried to regain their composure by rationalizing what they'd seen, but it was impossible.

Shirou didn't give the Saxons the time to recover. One man bare-handed and unarmoured against an army was not something that was realistically possible on the premise of physical strength alone. Even Lancelot would struggle and that man was a monster in combat. Yet Shirou couldn't be held by ordinary standards. Different from Lancelot the Peerless Knight, Shirou was a Magus, a magic swordsman in the eyes of his Kingdom.

The Kingdom did not protect the King, the King protected the Kingdom.

Shirou's magecraft had always been geared towards combat rather than research.

"Trace. On."

Reinforcement activated, but in a manner altered by Merlin.

From the lands beyond the horizon he comes bringing about the end of an era.

Patterns flashed across Shirou's body, giving rise to both awe and despair. The symbols painted over his body were in fact working Runes, and the two most prominent and recognisable ones flashed imposingly at his beckoning.

Uruz, the strength of will, and Ansuz of vitality.

Strength of will and the vitality to continue fighting was a frightening combination.

A hail of arrows abruptly shot at Shirou, but the deadly ranged weaponry seemed to bounce harmlessly off of him after leaving small nicks and scratches. One moment Shirou was standing in the center of the field, and in the next, Saxons began flying one by one.

It was then that the Saxons understood that they weren't facing just a man. They were facing a legend.

"Beat their asses! WOOOO! Upper cut! Left hook!" Mordred's commentary was unable to be heard by those affected by Merlin's magic.

In the distance, Edgar could not believe what he was seeing. That man, that mystical power, and the roaring of thunderclaps with every blow, it was inhuman.

Edgar's eyes shifted away from Shirou and towards a particular hammer Edgar was just now becoming aware of. It had remained in the central area of the camp out of view after Shirou had left it there before battle, and as such, Edgar had not yet seen it. Now though, there was no way the hammer could not be noticed.

It was glowing, crackling with tendrils of lightning that snaked up and down the hammer's shaft that grew in power the longer Shirou fought. At the hammer's hilt, magical energy was converging and forming a visible spire.

It was with growing clarity that Edgar traced the spire of magical power exuding from the hammer up into the clouds and towards the heart of the overhead tempest.

The bringer of wind and rain, and the owner of a hammer that calls forth a storm.

There was only one such being in Edgar's mind.

A Nordic War God.

Change would come, and it would come swiftly. Edgar still believed Gale and Natalie to be fools for suggesting coexistence with the locals, but one fact holds true in any era. He who possesses the stronger fist, trumps all, but Edgar inwardly added one more line.

He who possesses the greater wit, writes history.

With the power and capability Edgar was witnessing before him, the war could surely be brought to an end. He'd make sure of it.