Chapitre 59: Intermission 3
(A/N: Trust me, this one's more important than all others combined in a way. Some of you might like it, some might hate it. It's an antithesis of one of this work's themes.)
Remnants of Another Time
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Once called a witch, abandoned by her own flesh and blood, her role as rightful Queen ripped from her, and cast out from her own home. The current Queen and Empress of the British Isles stood at the bottom of the steps lead up to two ornate thrones, her pale hands locked together as she awaited the one who would enter through the massive gates near a hundred metres away with a giddy excitement that appeared as dull emotionlessness to the few retainers waiting to attend to her every need and whim at a moment's notice.
The soles of her black shoes dug into the red carpet that extended from the doors to the thrones, and the ends of her black and blue dress seemed to come alive, lightly caressing the ground below her. Her pale hair fell freely to her knees and a crown of black rested atop her head, a thin veil draping from it to hide her beauty from the world.
And then the moment came,
The gates were pushed open and a chill air descended on the well-lit throne room.
The servants near her stopped breathing, as if doing so without permission would spell their end, their eyes lost focus, and they fell to their knees, wishing that they in no way offended her Emperor.
That was good, they knew their place.
What came through the doors moments later, with heavy footsteps that seemed to make the Earth tremble and shake under them, was a man, nay, being, that prompted primal fear in all beholders.
Shrouded in her darkness, horned and with blazing eyes that refused to have anyone look upon them.
To all others, he was the King of Tyrants.
A man so feared and reviled that none dared raise their eyes to look upon his visage, most ran, others knelt. His people did not love him, but they did not hate him.
He was the Godlike Emperor of the British Isles, of Britannia and of the Fae that lived beyond.
A self-sufficient land where all wrong was punished the moment it was done, at times, before it was done. Whose people lived in peace so long as they were obedient, who did not have to work or toil or fear for their lives.
Their manpower was golems, both agriculturally and in war time.
The people's demands were met, they could live in peace without working so long as they didn't threaten the sanctity of their fellow man.
If they did, well there was a reason her Emperor was called a Tyrant.
It had been argued that what he did, to replace farmers and carpenters and people of those natures, even soldiers with golems was a dream. Her Emperor had done it, blessed by Mother Earth herself and she, who was like a God herself, with authority over much, born from Earth itself, what was an impossibility was brought into reality.
Then, there had been those who opposed it, calling it inhuman.
He had killed them all.
And they deserved it.
To others, he was a symbol of fear, a tyrant of no humanity, who deprived man of the chance to prosper by his own hand.
Why?
She did not know.
He gave them all they wanted, used his own power to ensure that none would lack anything.
To her, he was the most beautiful thing to exist.
Her greatest treasure.
Her Emperor.
Her Beloved.
All hers.
The one thing the world itself couldn't deprive her of.
Her mind wandered back to a time where she had wandered a land that was supposed to be hers, stripped away from her, in complete delirium. Plotting the downfall of those who had wronged her.
And then came across a young boy who had lost his everything to foreign invaders, ready to give up all for the power he so sorely lacked.
There, the craven witch had found pity, for a thing she could see herself in.
She had bathed him in the primaeval curse that roiled under the land itself, birthed by itself, available only to it's rightful heir, her.
It moulded him, shaped him, improved him and then submitted to him.
It was a strange thing, an impossibility.
But it had happened.
There the witch gained a true companion who sought nothing of her.
And when that companion had fought for her honour, professing her compassion and kindness.
The witch found a place to be.
The witch found a place that was hers and only hers.
Something that she could never be deprived of by anyone.
And to that young man, she promised her everything and he did so in return, to the one who had been by his side in a world that sought to remove him.
To he who gave her a place to be and asked for nothing, belonged everything of hers.
To he who gave her a role that was only hers, she gave everything of hers in return.
To he whose compassion extended to a craven and vile thing like her, she gave her soul and heart.
And she would do so all again.
Nothing else mattered.
Why would she care for a people that had tossed her aside?
For a land that abandoned her?
For a family that sought to sell her away to be rid of her?
For those that tossed her aside?
She didn't care for them, she didn't want something like that.
She had everything she wanted in him.
He had given her the worth she desired.
He who offered his being to a witch that had deprived him of his humanity, and made him a monster.
Was her role and duty, her place to be.
So the witch gave up her hate and loathing, content with what she had gained in return.
A far cry from what she would have become if not for that one fateful encounter.
Thus, Morgan le Fay, Empress and Witch Queen, opened her arms and embraced a Tyrant, a beautiful smile on her lips as her happiness became evident even through a dull countenance. She didn't care for the thorns and horns upon his form that pricked her skin and drew blood, even as the 'tyrant' trembled in her hold, carefully wrapping his arms around her, afraid of hurting her.
"Welcome home, beloved." Her voice was soft, cold to all others but warm to his ears.
She did not need to ask to know that he had returned a victor from his conquest.
"I...I... thank you."
His was a thankless feat, but it did not matter.
She would treat him well enough to make it not matter.
In her eyes, he was the same man who had drawn his blade against a force of thousands, for her.
The same boy who almost naively believed her beautiful and compassionate to the point where she had become those things, for him.
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État de l’alimentation hebdomadaire
-- Classement
Power Stone 
-- Power
stone