Hey, guys! What's up? Hopefully you're all enjoying your summer vacation right now! As you might've guessed, the rather late update is because I was doing just that: vacation. I wish this chapter can complete your summer to an ever higher level of perfection... or maybe just lift it above absolute crap. Depends on you.
Actually, summer vacation, to me, means... zero motorsport. Being an avid fan, the near-stasis that their schedule just threw at me robs me of my weekend entertainment and scandals. Boo! As if the heavens were playing a joke on me and the rest of the motorsport community, right after the summer break ends for MotoGP, and we're hyped to get racing again... Angel Nieto passed away. 13 (or 12+1, as he insisted) times champion, and the godfather of modern Spanish bike racing... You will be missed.
In any case, let's change the topic. I want your opinion. Should I watch and follow the Fate/Apocrypha movies? The first one was a disappointment to me, so my motivation of watching that series tailed off. What about you guys? I promise, I haven't watched any of the newly-released movies in that series, and I may never will again, depending on your feedback. How is it? Is it any good? If it is, then I'll watch it. And why the hell Ufotable isn't producing that series?!
As always, enjoy the story, and keep the reviews coming! Don't forget to follow and favorite me! Cheers!
Disclaimer: If it was me, there'll be more action and fanservice in Fate/Apocrypha, Nasu... Get your act together!
The crackling of fire suits the atmosphere of the camp.
They're just normal men, huddled together for warmth and security. Compared to their youth, this life is considerably tougher than rearing animals and tending to crops, but the rewards far outweigh their hardships. One, the sheer pride of serving as soldiers under the famed Knights of the Round Table allows them to get 'special' privileges in various villages they rest sometimes. Two, their family's livelihood back in their hometowns is guaranteed.
And third, they can gaze at the Princess's beautiful features for as long as they like.
She's an oddity, that one. Being royalty, they had expected her to act in the same detached way the King does to his subjects. Of course, the reveal of her bloodline is still not official, but everyone can see their similarities. Unless she's the King's long-lost twin sister, which is unlikely, then the heir of the throne must be her. The person herself gets annoyed if anyone brings it up, and broke the nose of the person asking too intensely last time, so no one dares to discuss it out loud, even between themselves.
Even now, she's mingling about in the camp and talking and laughing and arguing normally with their peers, as if they belong to the same strata as her. They now know it's just a part of her own personality, and from her speech and conduct, they suspect she's brought up away from the royal court, for wildly different reasons according to their speculations. Gambling about it seems rude, so they avoid it.
There's not a single one of the men here who aren't mesmerized by her.
The King's features are soft and woman-like, as a result of Avalon maintaining his youthful figures. The golden, silky hair, the brilliant emerald eyes, the feminine face that enchants any onlookers, all of it is wrapped by the chains of being a king. Some of them who has actually seen his face commented on the distance they felt as they gaze at him, knowing their hands could never reach out and be accepted.
Princess Mordred is the complete opposite. She shares the exact same beautiful appearance, but her easy-going mannerisms, her frequent smiles and giggles, and her relaxed body stance draws the men closer and closer to her. She eats the same food as them, drinks the same beverage as them, and sleep on the same ground as them. Her down-to-earth nature makes her popular among the army, even if she only joins a few short months ago.
As a result of this popularity, however, they all agree on a strict look-but-don't-touch stance. Apart from Her Highness claiming she has a lover, anyone who receives her... 'blessings' will be instantly isolated during mealtimes and patrols. Also, the watchful eyes of her squire, a beautiful girl in her own right, feels like centipedes running across their backs, ready to kill them if they so much breathe slightly closer than comfortable to Mordred.
Whether she is aware of her own predicament, they're not sure. All they know is to hold the status quo, to enjoy being with her as long as they can.
Incidentally, if viewed from an outsider's perspective, their desire to protect her is not the same as the 'loyalty' they harbor towards their commander, in this case Gawain and Bagdemagus, who've just returned recently from the north. It isn't something earned through mutual respect and honor in the battlefield, as is the case with other armies as well. Mordred, to them, is an untouchable figurine perched on a pedestal, not too dissimilar to the way they view her father, despite their insistence of their difference.
No, what they harbor is more akin to 'worship'.
Certainly, those who has accidentally witnessed her battle with Lancelot and the unknown combatant who've injured Cecilia can attest to her inhuman prowess. No human can move and handle a sword that big, or carry a speed and change in momentum so drastic, no matter how enhanced with Magecraft. At least, not ones they know of. There are rumors of her having a stronger lineage of dragons' blood compared to His Majesty, further increasing the legitimacy of her chances for the throne.
It's both fortunate and unfortunate for all of them. First, it's a chance to impress in front of their future liege. Any one who can catch her eyes, or at least their commanders and are recommended to her, will have their place in future society guaranteed. The second part, though, is slightly more disconcerting, for reasons of the survival of the royal Pendragon line.
Really, what kind of father sends his daughter out to the battlefield?!
She said it was her choice, about how sitting around in Camelot like a proper princess disgusts her, but no one actually believes it. To their mind, a woman of her bearing should be cocooned in layers of security and swords, so that no harm can befall even a strand of her hair. No matter how strong she is compared to them, their instincts as a man leads them to think in this way.
Their rational minds as men, though, know that their combat potential has just increased significantly with her presence. Therefore, no one can utter the suggestion of sending her home and command from the back.
Because no one feels like they want to get their noses broken again, so no.
The girl in question is enjoying a more bountiful past time than her soldiers.
One fortunate aspect of being royalty, Mordred thinks, is the constant supply of edible foods. Now, they may or may not appeal to her, but having her belly full is important due to her energy consumption. Some women may envy her for her constantly slim physique, uncaring of calorie intake, but she sometimes finds the need to constantly partake in feasts to be cumbersome. At the very least, to her friends, if not her own palate.
Bagdemagus in front of her is being his usual reserved self, though the claim is slightly suspect due to their seldom meetings. He's the main leader of the previous skirmish up north, and have been since a few years ago when he was appointed to minister the lands there. However, the colder climate seems to have done no wonders to his skinny and pale build, making him look more like an impoverished scholar rather than a fearsome Knight of the Round Table.
"Hmm..." he mumbles, eyes fixated on her own self.
She shivers at the stare, fearing that her features will yet again claim a victim, but his next words shreds her misconception away.
"So... the stronger flavoring is to her taste, but not the others... hmm..." he continues to mumble in a small voice, as if jotting down a note inside his head.
After a while, she can't take the stare any longer, even though her conversation with Cecilia and some other soldiers has indeed turned out to be more pleasant than she thought.
"Oi, Bagdemagus, you should eat more rather than talk," she says crudely. "Honestly, I'm scared that you'd drop down and get confined to a bed in the infirmary soon."
He smiles and nods as a reply. "Thank you for your concern, Your Highness," he answers, not caring about her scowl at the way he addresses her. "But these weak bones still have life in them, so please rest assured."
She sighs, leading the others to pay attention to their banter.
"I'm not that worried, but your mutterings have begun to creep me out slightly. What is it? If you have something to say, I'd rather take it head-on than deal with it behind my back."
"I am merely noting the difference in taste between Your Highness and the other nobles, who supposedly frequently indulges in better luxury," he says calmly. "It turns out their 'food' is worse in standard than your own, and I am fascinated in the chef that has fed you for so long for you to have such stringent needs, Your Highness."
"Grandmaster is the best!" Cecilia exclaims excitedly, giving a thumbs-up. "His food is like an addicting drug, but a good one!"
Everyone laughs merrily at the claim, even the thin knight. Mordred vehemently agrees with her student, and begins to describe the wondrous meals Shirou has made for her. If anything, it'll raise his stock among the soldiers before he met them, though his disappearance has begun to wear thin on her anxiety. When can she taste his creations again? A year? Ten? Never?
She shudders at her pessimistic thought. If it happens, then she'd rather commit suicide rather than live in a bleak world without his cooking.
"That said, however, I fear this peace is no more than the temporary lull before a storm."
"Hm?" Mordred perks up. "What makes you say that?"
Bagdemagus lifts a finger in a pose, explaining, "The Romans are a prideful bunch, Your Highness. They sent in such few numbers as an attachment because they believe in their own quality, and that unit was completely destroyed without a single survivor. It's a certainty that Emperor Anastasius will come back, at least for honor, if not vengeance."
"And all the while we're dealing with internal security, huh..." Mordred ponders deeply.
"Exactly. This will be the perfect time to strike, as our forces are spread thin."
Cecilia raises her hand, asking, "Then... should we procure something powerful to use as a weapon? I have a feeling we're always being outnumbered lately, and resorting too much on clever tactics. Something like... the Holy Grail, maybe?"
The thin knight smiles knowingly.
"Its reputation is certainly grand, but the requirements to even lay eyes on it is far too strict for it to be feasible, Miss Cecilia," he says. "We know its location, but actually using it... Well, we will all die the moment we touch it."
"How so?" Cecilia quizzically asks.
The conversation has dragged on longer than it should, and begins to attract attention from the common soldiers. The topic is also about something they've only heard in legends, so hearing it direct from a Knight of the Round Table's mouth is a rare occasion indeed. Some of them has even begun to squabble over who'll take the next patrol, insisting every one of them needs to listen to this story. A rare glare from Bagdemagus's sharp, intellectual eyes brings them back to their faculty.
Continuing where he left off, he answers, "What the Holy Grail demands is a 'pure' wielder, and it is an attribute far more difficult than it sounds. Being 'pure' necessitates someone to never experience earthly desires, never partake in earthly pleasures, and never fall into earthly evils. To be frank, someone who matches that requirement is probably not human, and even the highest ranking nuns and priests we have dare not come near it."
"Someone who's 'sinless', basically?" Mordred rhetorically asks the air.
Bagdemagus opens his mouth to speak again, before realizing something and corrects himself on his previous answer.
"Of course, I mean no disrespect, Your Highness. But... you are a human already, even if you are not, correct? Forgive my rudeness."
He deeply bows in apology, remembering Mordred's unnatural origins.
She waves her palm about.
"No, it's fine. I'm used to it."
"That is not a wise answer, Your Highness," he insists. "As a future ruler, everyone should receive who you really are without any prejudice, and letting people off for these comments will only amplify the problem."
"What are you suggesting, Bagdemagus?" Mordred asks, irritated. "I should punish and hurt anyone who says something wrong in front of me? You know I'm not someone like that, so stop this grovelling. I hate it."
Those are mere words, but the air around him suddenly feels on fire, as if he's standing inside an active volcano's crater.
"O-Of course, Your Highness. Please forgive me."
"If you understand, then raise your head. All this 'future ruler' and 'would-be king' really grates me, you know? I'm not suited for that kind of task, so I'll leave it to the diligent Father."
She snaps her finger, before quickly saying, "Ah, don't tell him that, okay?"
Everyone laughs at the request, even the introspecting Bagdemagus.
However, that moment of happiness will soon be followed by a torrent of despair.
A few short weeks after, the Isle of Britain is on fire.
True to Bagdemagus's prediction, the Roman army comes in droves, fully intent on subjugating the relatively small kingdom that dares to defy its might. The lush wetlands become scorched fields, revealing the dark bedrock underneath and leaving a layer of ashen fog that clogs the lungs. The thick evergreen trees are mercilessly cut down and trampled over, leaving a bald patches of lands where previously the green ruled over. The peaceful, hardworking frontier villages are no more than piles of corpses and timber piled onto each other, their rotting stench gagging the soldiers.
Work is underway. The trenches are finished, and the priests and nuns have finished reading their rites as the bodies are carefully dropped into the openings. Being a mass grave, one might expect there will be some who can't take the sight, and it's right on the mark. A few of the younger soldiers and squires sit to the side, faces pale and blue after throwing up most of their breakfast, lunch, and dinner, while even the professional diggers sourced from affiliated mercenary groups can't hide their disgust and anger.
A few hundred yards from the burial site, two people are having their meal. It consists of thick, warm soup from boar stock accompanied with day-old hardened bread with a side of sour wine. Though simple, it's considerably more lavish than what the soldiers are having in their marches, eating mostly dried food and water. The rich aroma from the soup comes from the copious amount of butter melting into it, a rare and quite expensive ingredients the common folk usually splurged only once or twice a year, and the softened boar meat cooked into it. The bread generously absorbed the thick liquid and softened considerably, easing its passage into the duo's stomach.
The taste is plainer than Mordred's liking, as Shirou always pampered her with various strange herbs and techniques, but her desires are elsewhere at the moment.
"Mordred, calm down. You will ruin your meal," Altria patiently chides.
Her daughter merely glares in silence, angry without having anything to vent it out on.
"I know you wish to be on the front lines, but now is not yet the time. Incidentally, i am in need of someone to oversee the war relief effort, and so you are here."
"Father, please cut the bullshit," Mordred spits out.
The surrounding attendants bristles at the rough words, more out of nervousness than contempt.
"You know I'm not good at administration or management. You know I prefer to swing my sword with something to protect behind me, rather than sitting here and collecting trash. You know leaving me here will only make my anger simmer and thicken, waiting to go out of control," she rants non-stop, her meal neglected to one side.
"Knowing all of this, why am I still here?! Please tell me the truth!"
She manages to contain herself from destroying the table with her both-palm slam, but just barely.
Altria, dressed in a casual male suit, sighs.
"Finish your meal first, Mordred. We shall take in private."
"You always say that," Mordred grumbles. "It's one of your bad points, Father. I hate it."
Confronting the frank comment, she smiles wryly. "I know. Please bear with it."
As soon as they finish their meal, and the cleaning has been taken care of, they begin their walk towards their main camp, not far from the common dining area. However, the way through there requires them to cross the burning pyre used to burn the uncomplete and rotting corpses that are unfit to be buried. The earlier vomit-inducing stench grows stronger, causing revolt inside Mordred's stomach.
Without a word, she quietly steps nearer, surprising the soldiers and volunteers waiting for the fire to burn out, as well as Altria.
One of the volunteers is a middle-aged man, immediately running and grovelling in front of Mordred's legs, hugging her soles. The soldiers hurry to separate him, but Mordred waves them aside.
"What's the matter, sir?"
"Oh... Your Highness..." the man weeps. "Why... Why must we suffer like this?! This is unfair! We... we're never involved in wars, n-never join mercenaries and such... so why? Why now?!"
Gritting her teeth, she reluctantly answers, "Because we are weak. You, me, my father, the knights, all of us... We're weak, just mere mortals."
"But are you not descendants of those mighty dragons?!" He cries out, hysterical. "Your powers... ugh... ugh..."
His cries turns into choking sobs, causing his tired back to tremble.
"If... mgh... If nothing can already be done... please... At the very least, let those bastards' blood be a tribute to my wife and daughter!"
He continues to sob incoherently, and after a few minutes, he leaves, walking like a corpse towards a place no one can tell.
Walking forward, closing to the high tent of flame enough to burn her locks, Mordred says to the worried soldiers, "Move aside."
Her clenched hand, already bone-white since she and Altria ate, slowly extends forward, palm thrust into the heart of the burning pyre.
Instantly, the fire surges higher. Higher. And higher, far to the sky to create a dazzling vermillion flame.
Altria stands there behind her daughter, speechless at the act.
Mordred kneels down, slowly, gingerly, in a pose of prayer. Her diminutive figure contrasts that of the gigantic tower of heat, illuminating her skin and clothes with blood-red color. Strangely, instead of fear, the glow enchants the soldiers to her figure, and they begin to kneel as well behind her, hearts sincere in wishing the souls eternal peace.
After a few short seconds, the flame dies out, leaving not a trace of ash.
Standing back up, she speaks to the soldiers around her, "Please make sure you did the proper rites, even without the guys from the church. Don't ever forget that."
The men, excited by her voice, replies enthusiastically, "Yes, Your Highness!"
Not sharing their emotion, she solemnly moves to Altria's side, continuing their journey towards Altira's private tent.
As they pass the tent flaps, Altria hesitates slightly, before awkwardly tries to grab Mordred's palm in a poor imitation of a comforting parent.
Her hand catches nothing but air.
"Father, don't," Mordred hisses, her voice barely audible amongs the eulogies in the background. "Right now... just don't... Don't touch me..."
The air around the king's hand feels hot enough to scald her skin, before Altria quickly a minute amount of magic energy to protect her from Mordred's out-of-control emission.
Once more, she finds herself in a situation both painful and confusing. What should she say at this moment? What should she do at this moment? The earlier refusal has indicated that she, Altria Pendragon, at the very least, does not rank high inside Mordred's list of trustees. She wants to console her, encourage her, anything that can make her a sliver happier, but the king just doesn't know what to say or do.
For years, decades, even, she has kept her emotions under a lid, working under the assumption that an emotional ruler will not make his rule last. She needed to make impartial, and sometimes ruthless, decisions in order to achieve the peace and grandeur she dreamt of. She has heard of the tales of normal men and women, about how they lived their lives and interact with each other, but they were mere tales. When faced by a real situation, her impotent feelings can't do anything to anyone.
She clenches her fist in a manner not dissimilar to her daughter earlier, just for different reasons of frustration.
What to do? Should she embrace Mordred? Should she say 'It's not your fault', hoping that will make, somehow, everything justified? Should she grant her dearest heir's wish and let her rampage around?
'I don't know...' she sighs inwardly.
She feels the emotion of... envy, slowly budding inside her, one she doesn't know she possessed in the first place. Being a descendant of royalty, carrying the blood of the most gallant and majestic mythical creatures, she hardly lacks in materialistic needs. She never looked at the carefree kids running around in the village where she was raised, playing around without a care in the world, while she's cooped up and harshly trained in the way of knights and kings. She never glanced at the poorer children being taken care of lovingly by their parents, even in their impoverished conditions, eating warm meals happily as she lived away from her birth father and mother, never meeting them until the day they died. She never felt burdened by her duties, as her guards, low their position as it is, finds contentment in casual chats and drinks and gambles among their peers, while she's neck-deep in bureaucratic affairs deep inside the castle walls.
Never once she envied Guinevere and Lancelot for finding true love, or being able to properly sire a child. But now, oh, how she missed their guidance.
To be frank, Mordred isn't such a troublesome child as she feared. She has heard of large, grand kingdoms reduced to nothing but rubble in a single generation just because of a case of unworthy heirs. That said, Mordred, according to Altria, straddles the line between whether she's worthy of the throne or not. But... seeing her moody and gloomy like this doesn't sit right with her... something inside of her wants to see her usual carefree smile again...
Probably the 'dad gene'.
If someone asks her if she can leave everything to this girl and go on a holiday in Avalon... well, to be honest, she'll say no. There are parts where she feels her daughter may've done a better job than her, like in the interpersonal relationship department or as a morale-boosting symbol. Also, Mordred's strength perhaps already surpassed her own, if compared in equal terms without their respective weapons and armor. However, there are also parts of her personality unsuited to reign as a supreme ruler of the land, and the lack of capable advisor around Mordred is indeed a cause of concern.
Cecilia is a fine young woman, but without a capability to see and plan for the bigger things. She consigned herself to always serve behind Mordred, never allowing herself to overtake her master, and thus unable to obtain the vision necessary to guide or advise Mordred. Altria herself has this problem, which was why she created the Knights of the Round Table as a tool to gather talented individuals that complements her weaknesses.
Oh, and there's also Merlin and Guinevere. These two has always been supportive of her decisions, although shown in vastly differing ways, giving her peace of mind. Merlin's antics may be annoying, but at the very least, they distract her long enough for her to feel refreshed as she resume her normal duties. Guinevere is the model queen and wife, gently soothing her tired mind and soul every time she needs it.
It's such a shame she couldn't truly fulfill their desires.
A few minutes have passed since she began her contemplation, allowing Mordred to calm down somewhat.
Now... is the time to make a decision. Any delays from her part will probably set Mordred off again, and Altria chooses not to step on that landmine again. In some ways, she reminds the King of her younger self: idealistic, impulsive, and impatient, especially when injustice is performed in front of her eyes.
Well, if she overlaps her daughter and her younger self, of course they'd look identical, given their origins. But the feeling still lingers.
Luckily, before she can say anything, a flurry of violet petals bursts suddenly at one side of the tent.
"Whoa!"
Merlin nearly wets his pants as Clarent gently nudges its mighty tip on his nose, letting out a small stream of blood.
"Damn, man!" Mordred whines. "Don't scare me like that! I'm not in the mood!"
"That's my line!" He immediately retorts. "Who attacks someone as soon as they appear? Geez..."
Altria claps her hands, calming the two of them down.
"Now, now, Mordred, please stand down. And Merlin... she does have a point, you know."
"Why can't I have any allies anymore in arguments?!"
Coughing, the King asks, "What news have you brought us? It must be very urgent indeed."
Sitting down and wiping his nose, he answers, "Yes, Your Majesty. Bad news, in fact."
Mordred tenses up. "Are they marching forward again?"
"No, the opposite," he shakes his head in response. "They're consolidating their bases, making my plan to cut off their route ineffective. The supply routes are many and varies, too tough to cut off with the numbers we have. Seems they're hell-bent on beating us this time."
"Tsk, how brutish," Altria complains. "Are they preparing to make this a defensive battle?"
There is a tactic used by a famous strategist in a land far away, one only a handful of beings in the current timeline know. He switches the normal convention for warfare tactics, and one of them is to switch the offensive and defensive side on the spot. If a supply route is secure, then a defensive stance is more favorable to an offensive one, but logically thinking, an invading army should be on the offense, trying their best to finish the battle quickly to avoid using up too much resources.
This tactic, though, reverses that logic, making the invaded side taking the offense. To prepare for this, the Romans have to quickly and efficiently set up a strong base of operations, preferably using a moving fortress to set their position. It's not impossible for their court mages, Merlin surmises, and now the Britons need to waste even more energy in a siege battle.
Make the host and the guest exchange roles.
All the people inside the tent probably has never heard such phrase in their life, given the limited amount of contact and exchange of cultures between the kingdoms in the world at the time. Originating nearly half a millenium ago in a country far east from the Roman's eastern border, the road to open trade to that imperial country hasn't been opened yet, leaving each sides of the world largely ignorant of each other's existence.
That said, the person that can explain the stratagem in detail is busy playing with a child-sized elf leader, so he can't come in like last time.
"I'll go."
"Mordred..." Altria tries to cut her off, but her daughter is faster.
"Father, I know what you're planning to break open their defenses, which is to target the leaders among a sown discord inside closed walls- What?" Mordred asks to the other two, who're looking at her like some sort of alien creature.
"Ah, no... just didn't expect you to talk tactics, Princess," Merlin rubs his neck awkwardly.
"Hmph! Like you can say that as well!" Mordred counters.
"Hey, at least I did my job these last 50 years!"
"Stop, you two," Altria warns, her magic energy leaking out slightly as a threat. Merlin immediately backs down, though Mordred turns her attention back to her father.
"A person that can move freely while still getting the job done is scarce, Father, as you know. Tristan is busy holding off the mercenaries they brought, while Lancelot is gone. I have to go, at least to minimize anymore lost lives."
"But I do not want you to be one of them!" Altria exclaims, nearly shouting. Grabbing Mordred's shoulders, she says sincerely, "Mordred, I know I have not been the best father for you... No, I am not even the best ruler for you. But... you are young, and if you are really my daughter, then... I know how reckless you will be if you see something you dislike."
"Oh?" Mordred smirks. "I never expected the prim-and-proper Father to have such exciting teenage years."
"Precisely," she replies, her eyes serious. "I... do not wish to lose another family again..."
Her words, combined with her grip on Mordred's shoulders, feels instantly heavy.
Closing her eyes, Altria takes a forceful deep breath, before slowly saying, "But... you are right. I have no choice. Therefore, heed this royal command, Dame Knight Mordred Pendragon."
Staring straight at Mordred's eyes with her moist ones, Altria commands, "Bring me victory, and come back alive. That is all."
Mordred smiles warmly in kind, and suddenly hugs Altria tightly, nearly crushing her father with her strength.
"Thank you, Father."
Without any other parting words, she leaves the camp that night with Cecilia in tow, as fast as a whirlwind.
"Don't they grow up fast?"
At Merlin's words, Altria simply smiles.
"I do not know, because I was not there when she was born."
"It's just a matter of speech, don't go semantic on me, geez..."
Gripping a fence pole tightly, she ponders to no one in particular, "Sometimes... I wonder if this is the right path."
Not knowing it's a mere rhetoric phrase, Merlin answers straight away, "What do you mean?"
"Eh? No, I was just thinking to myself."
"Sometimes, letting it out is better than keeping it in, Altria."
"I do not remember you telling me so when I pulled Caliburn out, Merlin. Why the change of heart?" She asks, "Are you not the one who made me this way? To be naught with emotions, to be the perfect king in the image you and Father visualize."
"If you are angry at me, then please do so. I won't resist," Merlin concedes. "But... yes, I too wonder if I was right or wrong back then."
"Oh? How rare it is for you to admit your mistakes, oh, great wizard..."
"Spare me the sarcasm, Altria," he sighs. "In any case, we're far too deep in this hole to pull out now. I just hope Mordred's fate is good..."
Altria shows an alarmed face.
"What do you mean by 'fate'?"
"Ah, did she not tell you? She has the fate of 'Kingslayer', you know. It seems you and her are destined to kill each other."
"No, if it is only that, then she has told me. However, I never knew you are capable in divination, Merlin."
Looking at his student incredulously, he asks, "Hold on, hold on, she told you? As in... 'Hello, Father, I'm here to kill you!' kind?!"
His last words are spoken in a terrible attempt of impersonating a female's voice, and nowhere close to Mordred's own tone. He did nail the accent and mannerisms, though.
She giggles, answering, "Your acting is terrible. For that, she will kill you first before me, Merlin."
"I don't care about that!" He half-screams, half-laments, "You knew, and still kept her around? Why? Don't tell me you're getting sentimental and all that crap!"
"Perhaps," she nods, much to Merlin's consternation. "Maybe I am getting sentimental in my old age, who knows?"
"You're not even thirty, brat. Don't play that game with me," Merlin deadpans.
"Forgive me, oh, esteemed teacher," Altria replies while smiling, voice full of sarcasm. "However, you are right. I should act back then, the first time we met. But... it seems a part of me still yearns to be a parent for her, no matter how elementary the part I did is."
Before she can continue explaining, Merlin holds up a palm to stop her.
"Alright, stop there. I don't think I'm in the state of mind to listen peacefully, so I'm bailing. I'll research this psychological phenomenon of yours as well while I'm at it, at least to calm me down," he excuses himself politely. "You keep on playing dad, okay? Doesn't seem to be doing such a bad job at it, in any case."
"I hope you will understand, in time," she bows respectfully.
Snorting, he teleports out of Camelot back to his Workshop, partly confused with his charge.
Exhaling a tired breath, she sinks back onto her chair. Made of carefully constructed leather and thin lacquer, it's far more comfortable than the makeshift wooden ones used by her commanders out in the field, or the cold, hard ground, for that matter. She once frowned at the excessive use of luxury, thinking it has no place in a field for killing people, but for now, she's grateful she didn't throw this chair away.
Even though she wanted to explain her own feelings to Merlin earlier, she herself still hasn't come to grips with it, much less able to picture it in words. She has indeed identified her desire as one of those new parents experienced, some sort of instinctive need to care and nurture for her offspring. The initial shock and disgust at what Morgan has produced has melted away, replaced by a strange, warm, glowing sensation in her chest.
'Is it love?'
Letting out a damsel-like thought, she ponders deeply. Everything she's feeling about Mordred right now is consistent with a parent's love for her child, but... The problem she's having is with her emotionally-stunted heart, added with her inexperience receiving love from her parents, actual or adopted, makes her hesitate in fully claiming that emotion and letting it take over.
What if it causes her to turn a blind eye to Mordred's mistakes? Her weaknesses? What if her own well-honed impartial judgement as a king is clouded by it? What if it dooms the Kingdom of Britain anyway?
Those are the fears blocking the bud of love to grow inside her. It makes her increasingly frustrated at the unbridgeable distance between her and Mordred, enough to destroy whatever she has brought into creation in her kingdom if her daughter does indeed take the throne. It's a paranoid thought, but it's still possible.
Her task is made even more difficult by the lack of space for the being named 'Altria Pendragon' inside Mordred's heart. Clearly, through her interactions with her daughter, she practically worships her caretaker, the 'Shirou' being, so much so Altria even felt envy at him. Then, 'Cecilia' takes the next spot, occupying a same role Mordred is to Altria as she is to her master. The person called 'Altria Pendragon' is slotted way, way down the order, comparable to a 'mere acquaintance'.
In a way, her own daughter, nary a few years old since she was born as a homunculus, is far more emotionally mature than her, contrary to her usual antics.
The thought terrifies her, more than the Roman invasion.