Chapitre 95: Chapter 95
Near the borders just outside of Camelot's walls, a seemingly abandoned manor obscured by a grove of trees flashed with intermittent bouts of light. Magic circles inlaid with rotating sigils pulsed and traced up throughout the manor like webs that soon twisted into terrifying arcs of electricity the moment a figure directly entered the vicinity of the manor.
Within the sparsely decorated property, a hooded woman hunched over a work desk abruptly frowned. This woman was in the innermost chamber of the building, and unlike the shabby appearance of the exterior, this room was filled with various sorts of concoctions and parchments detailing archaic research.
Sweat dripped down her brow, leaving a glistening trail of perspiration illuminated by dim magic light.
"Who is it? What's going on?" She muttered darkly before hurriedly clearing out the top of her desk and activating an array of magic energy.
The symbols turned and twisted, producing a faint smoke that took up the outline of the entire abandoned manor. The halls, the rooms, even the outside grove of trees was depicted on this miniature recreation. Naturally, the thick smoke was coloured in a grey haze, forming a blanket over the research table.
Where?
Outlines of blue life energy signals soon pulsed across the desk, appearing in various places within the manor recreation. Animals, trees, and insects all appeared one by one down to the smallest detail, and there standing out in the open at the manor's front door was a dark figure that was seemingly looking right at her with unerring accuracy.
A chill travelled down the woman's back.
Who are you?
Life energy could be categorized by the vitality of an individual and whether or not they are magical in nature. Ordinary humans ignorant of the Moonlit World were of the same blue energy that comprised basic animals, plants, and insects. Magi were intentionally coloured red and marked as hostile as the action of breaking into another Magi's bounded field guarding their inner workshop was provocation at its finest, but this was different.
What appeared in the smoke was a flickering black flame that obscured all features.
A Phantasmal?
It was the only explanation that she could come up with. Though Phantasmals were rare in this era, that didn't mean that they didn't exist, only that something was off. The life energy of Phantasmals with the vigour to survive thousands of years should have been gold in colour, but this one was a dark tinted flame, a merging of shadow and fire.
What are you?
She peered closer through her spell, scrutinizing the intruder, only to reel back when a pair of narrowed reptilian eyes appeared through the haze. She knew what it meant in an instant as it was one of the primary reasons that she as a magus would risk danger to fall under the Witch Morgan's employ.
Dragon attribute.
She shuddered in shock. She'd seen this attribute herself from Morgan and the Homunculus by Morgan's side. This was proof that the reword of prime research material existed, and it was more than enough to temp any ambitious magi like herself shunned in favour of the first born in her lineage to prevent in-fighting.
Unlike the Witch Morgan however, the glow of this person appeared almost sinister when the woman considered just why such a figure would appear at her doorstep.
She swallowed nervously, vain pride and arrogance fleeing her as a thought came to mind.
Morgan gave her warning; other magi had also reported sightings; but she thought herself better than the examples of her inept colleagues before her. She was different, stronger, wittier, prepared.
She was loath to hole up in Camelot's defenses as if she needed Morgan's protection.
Could Morgan defend against the damn construct of sheer magical energy hanging like a guillotine over Camelot? A noose slowly tightening. Morgan had looked just as appalled as all the other magi. It was a miracle that Morgan had somehow convinced the other Magi that she had everything under control, but was it believable?
The woman hadn't thought so and left to an area where the construct didn't tower over her, and where she may have a chance to ward of the imminent blast waves. This was why she was here now outside the effective range of Morgan's wards, and yet what was happening right now?
"Do not leave the boundary. The ally of the Barthomeloi is out there."
The woman's eyes dilated, her lips pursing as she kept her focus on the figure obscured by shadow-like flame, and not on the reminder of what Morgan had warned her of.
Her body was tense, her fingers tapping incessantly on the activation sequence of her bounded field's defense mechanisms. Her complexion was as pale as a sheet.
Through the smoke diagram, she could see her traps activating simultaneously throughout the manor. Gouts of fiery magic fire, tendrils of electricity, gales of wind, and even mechanical dolls all headed towards the intruder. However, despite contact, that figure remained unmoving.
The gouts of fire moved to burn it, the lightning to fry it, the wind to fan the flames, and the dolls to finish the job.
Terror assailed her when absolutely nothing happened. She could clearly see the defensive measures of her bounded field striking down upon the figure, but there were simply now results. A second later, and the figure just vanished from her sight.
W-Where was it?
Her hands immediately grew clammy while her eyes darted left and right across the miniature comprised of smoke. Guest room, living room, outer halls, she checked everywhere but still couldn't see the reading until suddenly she could.
She shuddered as she gradually glanced up from her desk, a pit forming in her stomach.
In front.
The door to the inner chamber of her workshop creaked open to reveal a figure obscured by the looming shadows of the room. He was tall, imposing, and exuded a type of danger that threatened even most magi who wouldn't bat an eye to anything ordinary.
The smoke miniature abruptly disappeared as it was no longer of any use.
The woman's bounded field had been thoroughly bypassed and broken, and the intruder was already before her.
"Do you not know what it means to trespass into another magus's workshop?" The woman's tone was even, almost calm as she stood up and glared. Inwardly though, apprehension was like a vice squeezing at her innards. Her knees were wobbling beneath the dress she wore, her breaths uneven.
There was a suffocating pressure in the room, and when the woman looked up to the figure's eyes, the utter indifference in them unnerved her.
"Morgan must have told you who you were up against before enticing you over," the figure answered bluntly.
The woman flinched the moment a sword manifested out of thin air in the figure's hand. She would have attributed the phenomenon to a lesser craft known as Gradation Air, but even from where she stood, she could see no deformities or errors. Instead, she could barely repress a scream when it dawned on her just what that weapon in the figure's hand was.
A Noble Phantasm. It was no wonder he got through her defences so easily.
"What are you after?" She backed away nervously, feigned bravado quickly fleeing her.
She wasn't ignorant of what Morgan had meant by the 'ally of the Barthomeloi.'
Word had spread in the Association about a new Magician: a wielder of True Magic rumoured to be acquainted with House Barthomeloi, only that they weren't rumours but were in fact true.
The various Lords of the Mage's Association would never forget the moment House Barthomeloi presented so many Noble Phantasms for research at once. It was practically impossible to forget considering their relevance to what was known as the First True Magic of Materialized Nothing long thought to be lost.
"Don't you already know?" The figure answered in monotone.
Yes. She did in fact know. She'd been warned of it too as some of her colleagues presented the best example.
"W-What do you plan to do?" She stuttered in the face of the unfeeling menace before her.
"Take a guess," was the only reply.
An overbearing pressure exuded from all around, cementing her legs in place. She bit down on her lips hard. There were certain rules in place even before the creation of the Mages Association that all magi understood at heart.
Magicians that stand at the pinnacle of all research and had glimpsed the fabric of the Root were never to be lightly trifled with.
Why was this so?
Why else if not because of the danger?
In the woman's eyes, the figure before her towered relentlessly, cutting off all roots of escape. The hairs on the back her neck raised when all at once, numerous daggers formed hovering in the air and struck down upon the matrixes of her pre-set magic spells, destroying them in an instant before she could even use them to make an escape.
So…it was true, she all but verified at this moment, terror making her go mad.
A Magus Killer.
The ally of the Barthomeloi knew the means to induce despair in Magi by directly cutting off all connection between themselves and their craft. In short, this figure was well versed in the action of 'magus hunting.'
T-There was nothing left to be done; no defenses to activate, no means to fight back.
No one other than the most experienced of magi like the Wizard Merlin or the Witch Morgan would be able to elude him.
As for her, there would be no escape.
"You monster!"
She fired spell after spell in a panic.
To her growing horror, most only managed to slow the figure for a moment, the metallic groan of metal echoing off of his skin with each impact demonstrating the sturdiness of his body.
It was impractical! It was madness!
Of course, she knew of the risks involved before accepting Morgan's invitation, but to be a magus was to walk with death. Research material with draconic properties was worth the risk if there was the slightest chance of making a breakthrough and finding a way into the Root.
Had her arrogance been that great? So much so that she believed that what happened to others naturally wouldn't happen to her?
Her teeth chattered uncontrollably, a melody of death and despair playing in her ears as if in mockery of her resistance.
Her means were shattered, her path of escape cut off, and in the very moments as despair set in, she noticed a certain sword form at her back and stab into her silhouette of her shadow.
Black key. She all but screamed in her mind.
The woman knew what this meant through her knowledge of the secret order of clergy known as the Enforcers.
Evil will slay the wicked.
Let the foes of the righteous be condemned and barred.
Her shadow had been pierced, pinning her down in reflection of the special attribute all Black Keys possessed. Namely, in their restrictive nature. The shadow struck by the blade would bind the body in place.
The woman stated up blankly at the figure still standing before her. How was she even supposed to fight back against this on her own? She laughed bitterly in her mind.
Magic born and garnered from the Root.
This is the power harnessed by Magicians known as the True Magics.
No! She was unwilling to let it end like this! Even if she was unable to move, that didn't stop the woman from creating curses on her finger tips and firing them outward. However, such an action had already been proved futile.
"Why won't you die?!" She yelled bitterly, unresigned as she continued a feeble resistance. "What sort of monster are you?!"
Cold bronze-coloured eyes regarded her frostily while advancing forward.
"You think I wanted to do this?"
Another spell shattered like fragile glass, shivers travelling down the woman's spine.
"You think I enjoy this?"
The figure was now directly before her.
"You've made your choice by coming here and coveting what you shouldn't touch."
The blade pressed against the woman's neck, the edge tearing through skin like paper.
"Now die by it."
A clean line gradually appeared right across the woman's throat before the blade faded into motes of azure light and a head rolled across the floor.
Indifferent eyes remained unblinking as a gurgle of blood splattered across the room, mottling the workshop with an ocean of red that smeared droplets on the walls even a distance away. Said droplets landed over an unseen rune which sparked and lit a fire which rapidly grew in size.
The figure once obscured by the low lighting of the room now appeared in full view.
Shirou in sleek hunting armour soon left the manor as it burned down into ashes in the wind. His features were tinted with resignation and disgust, a perpetual scowl over his features. Not once had he stopped to rest or even reconsider his actions.
Another one dead, another name crossed off his list of targets.
Once there may have been a time where he'd hesitate to act so ruthlessly, but he'd already had a life time to understand what mattered to him more than just his ideals.
His bottom line had long since been crossed, and there was almost nothing to impede him anymore.
This miracle in time that allowed him to be with the woman he cherished and even start his own family was being put at risk.
His wife brought to tears; his children, his blood and joy threatened; what man, what father could endure such a thing?
If Morgan dared take that final step and rid herself of any leverage against him, then there was no longer anything to hold him back.
He would come for her and all that would stand in his way.
Nothing was more dangerous than a man with nothing left to lose.
As it stood now, he would restrain himself if only due to the delicate nature of the situation.
Lady Vivian was aiding him to view what was occurring within the castle through any medium of water. She did so on the oath that he'd thoroughly discipline all who would dare continue propagating the rumour that 'Lady Vivian pads her chest.'
Of course, he agreed without hesitation, and as such maintained constant surveillance on Morgan without her knowledge. The moment that anything untoward occurred, he would know and immediately drop the towering sword hovering above Camelot.
The thing that irked him however was Lady Vivian's cooperation.
She had refused to actively communicate with him stating that she wouldn't interfere more than necessary in the affairs of humans, and insisted that this was nothing more than a favour; even then, it was only due to the relation he shared with her as a descendant of Lord Ashton and as Lady Agatha's current host.
The answers that he desperately wanted like the state of his children and Mordred constantly stressed him inwardly. Lady Vivian had told him not to worry, but how could he not without further explanation?
Even with Vivian's means to spy on Morgan through mediums of water, he'd not seen hide nor hair of his babies, and Mordred was rarely seen.
Suddenly, he was beginning to understand what Agatha meant about Lady Vivian's habit to talk in riddle "so as to sound sophisticated and mysterious." Then again, it could just be that Lady Vivian couldn't fundamentally connect with the thoughts and motivations of humans.
Just because Lady Vivian said not to worry and believed it was an adequate statement didn't mean that it was enough of an answer to satisfy any parent with their children missing.
Vexed as he felt, he knew that the blame didn't lie with Vivian and he should just be thankful that she was granting him a favour at all.
Sorting his thoughts, he refocused himself on the matter at hand.
Guerilla tactics weren't something he was unfamiliar with, and this was precisely what he was doing while buying time for reinforcements to arrive.
It may seem as if he had the advantage by keeping Morgan at sword point, but the fact remained that Morgan had people he wanted and unless he wanted to be responsible for killing the people that he held dear, he wouldn't drop the sword lightly.
If he pushed too hard, then there was no telling what Morgan would do when forced into a corner. Similarly, if Morgan got too out of hand, she could say goodbye to herself and the entire kingdom.
They were in a stalemate where just a tiny push on either side may be enough to set everything off.
Each limited the other's actions, and only the middle forces may have an effect.
This was why he was hunting the magi on Morgan's side while delaying Morgan in the short term while his own forces mobilized.
In the end, if Camelot and Morgan's forces within could be defeated, then there was no need to drop the sword as there would be nowhere for Morgan to run.
Morgan had eluded detection for years, but now that she was out in the open, there would be no getting away.
His lips thinned, any traces of naivety fleeing away from his features.
Making his way out of the grove of trees that had hidden the abandoned manor from sight, he walked to the top of a distant hill and stood still with eyes narrowed on the structure ahead of him.
He looked deeply towards the castle miles away before clenching his fists tightly in agitation.
It was his children Morgan had in her custody.
Although it pained him to not be able to rescue them immediately, he had his own way of reassuring them.
Even if he wasn't there at their side right now, he wanted them to know that he was here; that he was fighting; that he wouldn't give up on them. He would watch over them from a distance without fail so that no harm may come to them.
"Just endure for a bit longer," only he knew who these words were directed towards.
He firmed his resolve and glared, knowing that he was being watched.
Then let her watch.
Nothing would get in his way.
"Daddy's coming."
"This bastard!"
A glass shattered over the floor, breaking into shards that fragmented into tinier sharp pieces that gleamed under the light of a candle illuminating a sealed room in Camelot's castle.
Morgan was sneering from beneath her veil, her features clouded by doubts and apprehension.
Reality was utterly veering away from her expectations, and there was nothing that she could do about it.
Sneering, she stood up and began pacing. These days she preferred staying away from the sight of the sword hovering up above to avoid needless anxiety and stress. Already, the impression of wrinkles had begun to form over her brow from how frequently they were creased with worry.
She'd figured that Merlin was the biggest adversary in her ambitions, as Shirou had never seemed the sort to be ruthless. He was the perfect example of what Knight should be, chivalrous, kind, and most of all, honour bound.
There was no such thing as a proper Knight who would endanger not only the innocent, but threaten the very livelihood of the kingdom at large for a familial dispute. Not even Arturia would go that far as it was against the very nature of everything that she stood for…and for the longest time, the Ashton boy was practically Arturia's role model.
Morgan could still recall the way her little sister had followed the young Ashton around like a little duckling waddling to the tune of his or her mother.
It was unthinkable that Shirou of all people could resort to this. It never even occurred to Morgan that such a thing could happen, and this was due to a single misconception.
Was Shirou being a Knight for the sake of being a Knight and upholding his ideals, or was it because of Arturia and the people he held dear that he took on the role of a Knight and then a King?
The motives were as different as night and day, black and white, and there was meaning in this, as this meant Shirou would have to be re-evaluated.
The lengths he would go towards, the limits of his tolerance, everything had to be re-thought out.
Morgan sighed and took in a long breath. A dull throbbing originated from her transplanted arm cultured from homunculus cells. It would hurt whenever her stress levels were getting too high, and served as a reminder that familiar bonds and family meant nothing.
The very person who cut off said arm was her own daughter. Then to make things worse, her son tried to kill her next.
Indeed.
The only one that mattered and could be trusted was herself. So, then how should she deal with this present matter?
Taking the time to leave her inner chamber, she walked towards the nearest window outside in the hallway overlooking a large portion of Camelot's scenery. The bustling streets patrolled by Gawain's Knights, to the distant trees, hills, and grass of the horizon. All could be seen.
She stared out the window, and couldn't even take a moment to relax.
It wasn't only due to the shadow of the massive magical construct above her, but something far more direct.
He was always, always there within view where she could see him as if he could somehow know where she was within the castle.
Waves rippled on the surface of a small wash basin in a room in clear view of Morgan.
The knuckles of Morgan's hands creaked from how tightly she clenched her fists.
An elusive figure could be seen upon the peak of the tallest hill, watching her every move and waiting for anyone who dared set foot out of the bounded field over Camelot.
He was like a ghost, a plague, a blight on her mood.
Just he watched her, she watched him from within the safety of Camelot's vaunted walls. The very moment that he set foot within Camelot's boundary she'd use spatial distortion principles to relocate him back outside. The craft was similar to a short-scale instant teleport too fast to be obstructed.
Morgan was aware that Shirou had a means to negate magecraft, and wasn't too knowledgeable on the details, however it didn't matter. How could he negate what he couldn't see?
The runes inscribed in her spatial distortion craft were tiny and worked on the assumption that Shirou could only nullify them with the weapon he had on hand. So long as she avoided letting the weapon touch her sigils, there was nothing Shirou could do.
This assumption was proving quite effective as it barred Shirou from navigating anywhere near the castle or the kingdom. He was forced to roam only on the boundaries which was why she'd warned the magi under her to be remain within Camelot's walls.
Of course, not all listened and soon enough, a name came to mind whispered with fear and apprehension by the remaining magi too rational to venture out on their own anymore.
The Magus Killer.
How utterly suffocating.
She pursed her lips, her teeth gnashing in agitation while unwillingness knit her brows together. There was nothing pleasant about this situation, and it felt as if she was standing on tenterhooks. She'd barely managed to convince her associates that everything was under control; that the sword hovering over their heads every day was all part of her calculations while knowing she was spouting bullshit.
There was nothing she could even do about the sword.
As a conceptual Noble Phantasm of sorts, it was practically a magic bomb with how densely packed with energy it was. One wrong move, and the entire thing could just explode, leaving her with little options.
She had to deal with Shirou, but in the short term her hands were tied.
There was no other choice but to wait and prepare a suitable environment to take him down all while under constant threat of death.
A chill suddenly travelled down her back as a reverberating creaking noise originated from the construct above her.
Why? What was happening?
The pallor of Morgan's complexion paled. She hadn't even made a move yet to offset the delicate balance of the situation and it was already tipping.
She spared a glance back at that figure in the distance and could practically feel the piercingness of his bronze eyes.
He was serious about this. It was really happening.
That sword would fall.
Her pupils dilated.
"You Goddamned bastard! What now?!" She reeled, feeling vexed and confused.
If he wasn't such a monster then she would have killed him personally by now. A trace of viciousness caused her muscles to tense, but this wasn't the time.
This man was about to ruin everything she'd ever strived for. How could she let that happen?
Think. Father always praised you for your astounding insights before he married you off.
Rather than panic, Morgan shut her eyes and stood in silence. There was a reason she could be so successful as a Witch and magus, and this was due to an analytical mind that could rival the best of individuals.
Quickly, she thought of something and immediately snapped a finger, activating a concealed sigil in her clothes, and appearing within a certain chamber where she'd instructed Mordred to stay.
It was exactly as she had thought.
"No, you capricious fool, stop!" Her fury was no exaggeration. The floor practically cracked into pieces with just one step. "I told you that you may partake of her after the situation is resolved!" She hissed sharply.
Across from Morgan was Mordred pinned down to a bed by a man she could have easily throttled in a normal state of consciousness. However, in light of the arranged 'marriage' Morgan had conceived to provide enough sample material to the magi enlisted by her, she'd made a command for Mordred not to resist any of the man's advancements.
Morgan had yet to rescind that order as the situation had long since flipped over its head.
Mordred's hands were tied with bedsheets each in the direction of a bed post. Her tunic had been unbuttoned, revealing a small valley of two peaks covered only by a few layers of chest wraps. Mordred's features were blank, so much so that it was like she was trying to cut herself off from reality.
The man was straddling Mordred and in the midst of pulling down her pants.
Morgan was generally coldly dispositioned and indifferent to matters regarding morals or ethics as a magus, but she was beyond livid at the moment. Nearby, a basin of water was rippling violently out of everyone's notice.
"Ah, Morgan," the man seemed jovial in the face of her anger, raising his arms up like a child caught with his hands in the cookie jar. It only angered her more.
"Duke Owel," she said menacingly, barely managing to refrain from lashing out at the man. Lascivious as he clearly was, his influence as a Duke was still enough to rally a substantial number of knights to her cause without the taxing need to alter their minds.
Evidently though, the man still needed to learn prudence.
"Do you not understand the danger looming over our heads?" She seethed inwardly, barely sparing Mordred a glance as Duke Owel cupped Mordred's cheeks with a hand, turning her head from side to side while admiring her soft features.
"And I have the utmost confidence in your capability," Duke Owel replied nonchalantly.
He was a smart and shrewd man who always acted in his best interest, and ever since Morgan had already eluded both Arturia and Shirou to save him at Gwent, he developed the impression that she was superior to them. As such, for Duke Owel, with Morgan around, there was no need for too much caution.
Look around, they'd done it. Camelot was in Morgan's hands. So, what if there was a giant sword in the sky, Duke Owel had overheard Morgan state that everything was handled to the other magi in her employ.
Duke Owel failed to see Morgan's rues for what it was and thus had baseless confidence.
"You've already forbidden me from leaving the kingdom, or causing a scene that would lower public opinion of myself." Duke Owel explained on his behalf, his eyes roaming Mordred's figure as the image of the queen's beauty came to mind. "I can't even beckon forth any palace maids or noble daughters to help satisfy me-"
"That's your problem," Morgan had already heard enough, but still Duke Owel's continued as if he was justified.
"Indeed, it is, and that's why surely a bit of foreplay can be tolerated?" Duke Owel grinned at Morgan before turning his attention back onto Mordred, a hand cupping her chest lightly before tracing down her navel to her waist.
Barely noticeably, Mordred's lips quivered, her eyes staring right into Morgan's own but not finding a trace of sympathy.
If not for the rumbling in the sky, Morgan really may have allowed this to proceed.
As it was, Morgan shuddered as the creaking noise of metal far up above echoed throughout the kingdom.
"Duke Owel," she stressed each word. "Refrain." This was her final warning, and Duke Owel could tell by the tone of her voice.
"Alright, fine. Ruin my fun," Duke Owel knew when to back down.
He stood up from the bed, grabbed his robes and placed them back over his bare chest, feeling somewhat indignant as his planned wedding had been constantly delayed. He couldn't help but feel that Morgan was needlessly worrying.
"What's there to worry about?" Duke Owel tried to lighten the mood, but Morgan wasn't having it; her features frosty, her visage twisted.
Duke Owel shrugged, his confidence preventing him from dwelling on the issue as he was in Camelot: the safest place in all of Britain.
He walked directly towards the window and opened the blinds, blasé and blatantly unaware that he was entering a line of sight.
Morgan could sense warning bells ringing in her mind immediately.
BOOM!
An ear-splitting explosion sounded out from a distant shockwave.
One, two, three, each barrier around Camelot was pierced through and offered no resistance to a projectile rapidly accelerating from the horizon.
For a fraction of a second, Morgan was stunned, stricken with incomprehension. It still didn't stop her from reaction however and teleporting to the other side of the room.
As for Owel, Owel wasn't her.
What she could do, he obviously could not.
Owel's pupils dilated as he looked at the red spear that had pierced through all of Camelot's magical defences and struck him through the heart with unerring accuracy. The force of the strike propelled him off of his feet and pinned him to the far wall right in front of Mordred's view.
There were no signs of another shot coming, but after all, one shot had been enough.
"What a disgrace to nobility," Morgan muttered while feeling like everything was falling apart.
What did she just see?
She'd theorized that Shirou had a means to bypass magic, but this was just absurd. This one spear when propelled through the air had pierced through all defences like nothing. All that would be required from her to die tragically was to be within view and a moment of carelessness. That's all it would take.
She would never risk being out in the open again, as this just proved that nowhere was safe, and that nothing was really in her control.
She suddenly laughed from a sense of estrangement, like everything she took for fact was just an illusion.
Her attention focused on Mordred, at the light that seemed to glint in her pupils.
"Are you happy? Elated?" Morgan questioned almost bitterly.
Of course, Mordred didn't answer. Her eyes seemed to just keep staring at Duke Owel's corpse before glancing towards the massive construct floating over Camelot.
To others, it was a sign of danger and fear, but it had a different meaning to a select few who knew what that sword represented.
'I'm here.'
It seemed to scream.
'Your death is coming,'
It seemed to whisper to another.
Morgan's mind went into overdrive, biting down on the nail of her thumb before covering Mordred in a blanket and leaving to ponder. Duke Owel's corpse could rot for all she cared. She'd send some vultures to clean it later.
How could the influence of one man cause such unrest?
"You're really testing my limits, aren't you?"
She loathed to admit it, but she was forced to. She began to list the known facts of the situation, placing the most importance on three main aspects: Shirou's strengths, his weaknesses, and then how to go about exploiting them.
She had to thoroughly trap this monster who seemed practically invincible and who's methods could suppress her so harshly.
One thing was clear, and this was her only advantage against Shirou.
Mordred. She would be the key to his despair.
The problem was that her control over Mordred waned completely when in Shirou's presence, likely due to a theory she'd long since established. Moreover, if Shirou could somehow destroy the matrix of sigils in Mordred's body compelling Mordred to obey her commands with a magic nullifying item, then what was she supposed to do?
This would be Morgan's greatest challenge of ingenuity and human manipulation. If it was her, then surely, she could pull this off.
She just had to be careful.
The mind is the greatest tool, and an idea was gradually taking root.
For the time being, she would have to maintain this balance, but it was clear that civil war was inevitable. There was no way her little sister would be sitting still right now.
Gather your forces, make your plans, it doesn't matter.
Morgan was done hiding. This was her birth rite.
Her kingdom.
She would defend it until the end no matter the means.
Time can mellow anyone, especially those that felt lost or helpless, and Arturia was slowly reaching that point.
The fire and urgency she'd felt initially had subsided due to the trust she had in Shirou to buy her enough time to amass the kingdom's forces. All that was left was constant brooding and bouts of worry that left her utterly silent unless spoken to.
For Guinevere, the change was shocking.
After a week of travel, Arturia along with Emily and Mordred's knights had arrived in Gwent to request the aid of Cywyrd to send word to rally the kingdom's stationed soldiers. The two women were presently in a waiting room while Cywyrd was making arrangements.
Guinevere was the one tasked with providing hospitality for Arturia and Emily as she was also one of their friends.
When her father said that the situation was bad, Guinevere had thought that he had just been exaggerating when he asked her to try and raise the Queen's spirits.
I-Isn't that request just impossible right now?
Guinevere opened her mouth, but could say nothing before closing it and urging Emily with her eyes for some sort of explanation.
Arturia looked lifeless, her thoughts elsewhere despite being in the company of friends. It was a far cry from the red-faced woman too embarrassed to attend social gatherings as a noble lady due to inexperience.
Right now, Arturia looked for all the world like she was planning to kill someone. She was expressionless, her brows perpetually knit, while a hand was constantly maintained over the pommel of her sword.
'What happened?'
Guinevere's silent inquiry remained unanswered as Emily shook her head with a tired sigh.
Left confused, Guin did her best to set down a cup of tea for Arturia and Emily with a straight face despite wanting to break out of etiquette and get to the bottom of this matter.
The tea placed in front of Arturia didn't even seem to register to her, her attention focused on some direction outside a window evidently far more important.
"Okay," Guin was going to be the bigger woman here. She placed her hands on her hips and assumed her lecturing pose just before Emily abruptly placed a palm over her mouth and muffled anything Guin was about to say.
"Not right now," Emily said solemnly, a flicker of weariness in her features as she smiled thinly. "I've finally just got her to stop trying to run off on her own. I can't have you set her off."
Guin raised a brow, unable to understand what Emily was implying here. Still, she could see that Emily was only trying to keep things in order.
Guin nodded slowly before Emily released her grip.
They looked towards Arturia only to find that she hadn't even been paying attention.
"Alright," Guin whispered sharply in Emily's ear. "What the hell is going on?"
"This…" Emily could only explain as quietly as she could, and by the end of it, Guin was the one who became emotional and tried to say words of comfort. Still, before Guin could, Emily stopped her.
"Don't try it. You know that she's not the type of person to be comforted in such a way," Emily said before looking at Arturia with concern.
Arturia had mellowed out considerably on the journey to Gwent, but everyone who looked at her had pained feelings of pity and remorse. Her left hand was over her left breast just above her heart as if she was enduring an unseen pain.
Guin frowned, her hands grabbing the hem of her dress as her discomfort and indignation over the situation caused her to wilt and sit down in silence while waiting for news from her father.
Meanwhile, Arturia remained brooding.
It wasn't as if she didn't see the concern her friends had over her; it was just that she couldn't bother to keep up appearances.
A part of her still felt devastated in a way that only a mother could understand, and no words of conciliation could alleviate it. The only way was when the warmth of her babies was once more in her embrace.
They were little gremlins they were.
Cute little gremlins that would grow up into a princess and a prince after finally growing a spine and not being scared off by her. One was going to be a handful to raise while the other seemed quite reserved.
She called them gremlins due to the mischief the two often got into by crawling to high places and nearly falling off, forcing her to her wits end between her duties and keeping constant vigil of them.
Each fond memory that came to her mind was like another jab to her heart.
She honestly didn't know what she would do if the worst had already come to past and they were gone forever.
No. No they weren't gone. Shirou's there. Just trust in him.
This was all she could do to keep a clear state of mind by constantly repeating such thoughts again and again. Her hands grew clammy, her breathing hastening from nervousness.
She'd never felt like this before, so desperate, so lost. The only thing comparable was when she'd thought Shirou had died and that was a whole other trauma.
The fact that Morgan was the perpetrator of it all wasn't lost on Arturia. Not. One. Bit.
She was snapped out of her darker thoughts as Cywyrd opened the door to the waiting room, walking in with a tired expression and a weary gait.
"We have no way of delivering the messages out on time, and there's no way we could warn everyone of what has occurred before it's too late," Cywyrd laid the facts down as they were. "A moth is too short for any of this due to logistics and mobilization factors. We'll need at least two months if you want a substantial force."
The messaging system of the medieval era was far from developed enough, and there was simply nothing to be done about it given the period's constraints. Magecraft may prove of some use, but it wouldn't have the same affect as a personal message or decree to assemble.
This was just how reality was. The time between messages there and back was just too time consuming.
Obviously, this wasn't the most pleasant of news, and everyone very purposely tried not to look in Arturia's direction.
She was the one who was the most urgent.
She was the one with the most to lose.
Naturally, she wouldn't keep still.
"Just leave this matter to me," she got up without another word and started walking outside before pausing at the door of the room and looking back at everyone, her lips quivering. "Whether or not this works doesn't matter as it doesn't change what I must do," she said with a strong front.
"The forces of Gwent will stand in your service," Cywyrd bowed his head.
"House Barthomeloi will keep its word and settle matters with members of the Association," Emily pitched in.
Guinevere thought quickly as she thought of a certain matter. "Uhm, ugh, I'll contact Sir Lancelot and tell him he has a son! Wherever he is, he'll be here to help if he knows what's good for him!"
A flicker of emotion caused some colour to return to Arturia's complexion while Cywyrd looked stunned at the news.
"My gratitude to you all," Arturia said in earnest.
Resolutely, she left the reception room and quickly made her way to an open field where she stood alone all the way until the skies began to darken.
The grass swayed, the moon shone down from up high, while the owls sung their tune from hidden burrows and nests.
This world was beautiful, but often, its wonders are taken for granted.
Petty struggles.
Needless strife.
The blood of hundreds perhaps even thousands have stained the earth through wars waged on this land alone.
It was for her people's sake that the sword of selection was drawn to choose the one who would guide this kingdom out of ruin.
It was for her people's sake that she still fought on if not as a King, then as a Queen.
Her life had been set in stone since the moment the sword of selection was drawn.
Fine. Let it be so.
Yet there was just so much that she could take and endure.
Her eyes closed, her hands drawing forth her sword and holding it out in front of her by her chest and pointed up at the stars above.
Cywyrd was correct in that it would take far too long to send messages to the correct people, but her methods were different from his from the start.
Blessings of the moon be upon me. O sacred sword, reveal your light of victory.
The breadth of the stars crystalized in the hopes and wishes of mankind manifested with the golden hue of floating sand-like motes.
From the earth it comes; from life and dreams it manifests.
Wherever they were, and whatever they were doing-
A golden radiance like twinkling gems shone from the darkness of twilight.
All in her kingdom who see this light will know.
"March with me," she muttered solemnly.
The light shone ever brighter, ever stronger.
Bidding all in the kingdom to remain steadfast for one final glory.
One final purpose.
Her eyes hardened in resolution.
"…to war."
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