Welcome back to a new chapter! Got nothing much to say here apart for wishing for your enjoyment of this chapter. Cheers!
Mailbag!:
Torukeru: Yeah, because this is a rewrite, I decided to do a reboot on her whole character, because I first wrote her Heroic Vessel version before I read Prisma Illya. And yes, those six Sub-Bells were chopped up just like canon Cernunnos. Regarding Altria's behavior, I guess it's popular enough with people to warrant its own porn sub-genre...? You don't have to dig too deep to find a healthy community of people with olfactory fetishes. Hey, I'm not judging you even if you admit you did. You'll always find like-minded people out there.
WaitMAN: I'm honestly just glad to hear someone liking that story! I don't. Must be doing something right back then!
one below all: I'm glad that side of him went through for you! I've been rather unsatisfied with how I started his characterization in the original. Morgan will get to her Lostbelt self's level, but not now.
"What's a 'Hyperbolic Time Chamber'?" A mature, feminine voice queries right beside me when I'm sat in a meditative pose.
I know this is both intentional and unintentional from Merlin. The first part is a test whether my self-hypnotic ability is firm enough to still activate under distraction. The trick is not to pursue the problem under the assumption of asceticism, where one must endure and distance oneself against temptation; the answer is actually to develop a rudimentary parallel processing method so multiple actions can occur smoothly simultaneously. The second part… well, she is a succubus, so her attempt at what should be a rudimentary test comes off overwhelmingly strong, the floral scent wafting from all her pores flooding my senses. In fact, her scent is stronger than Avalon's entire flower garden, which, like Unlimited Blade Works, can extend to infinity if Merlin so chooses.
However, I'm no inexperienced virgin myself, both in terms of Magecraft and sexual techniques. Though perhaps I have to admit she's currently my superior in both regards… Hopefully the distance between us isn't so great. "Exactly what you're already instinctively doing," I reply, looking up with my toddler body.
Since she's bending down to attempt to see me eye-to-eye, her posture should've come off as extremely seductive, with the usual peek down her clothes' neckline revealing her creamy breasts available for me to enjoy. Alas, she's never seduced a toddler before – apparent from her forgetting the fact I'm so short this little trick doesn't work.
From Morgan's report, maybe Altria will be instantly entrapped in Merlin's wiles if she bothered, but not me.
- Jii…
She glares at me for a while longer, appearing to have ignored my reply. Or she didn't even listen, so focused on this nth attempt to rouse some sort of fluster from me. The mild scrunch of her eyes and nose may also be her attempt to appear intimidating, though compared to the monstrosities-in-human-form I've faced in my previous deployments, she comes off as simply adorable.
Yes, she really is beautiful. That's a simple fact ringing true across the universe. Even the various alien entities I've met must admit Merlin can lay claim to have the most attractive appearance, much of it can be attributed to her natural glamour – a combination of her own strength, Conceptual Weight, and bloodline – and a genuinely attractive personality. White hair on an average-looking person will simply look like the worst of albinism, not countered at all by an ethereal appearance like Illya. However, Merlin isn't just enchanting, but her hair manages to strike the perfect balance between volume and glittering detail, fluffing every which way like a fusion between a cloud and a supremely furry Phantasmal Species.
Somehow, it reminds me of Cernunnos, an old acquaintance. Though she may not appreciate that sentence if I say it out loud.
Merlin's far from being the curviest woman I've seen – indeed, Gilgamesh has her comfortably beat in that aspect, and Morgan is already her equal now – but the curves going down from her pristine collarbone, to her pert breasts, to her flat stomach, to the slight swell of her hips, to her shapely and toned rear covered by her voluminous hair, to her slim legs… They're akin to a divine uneven horizon drawn by a master painter. They might look uninteresting at first glance, but the expected flat lines are actually complex, carefully-crafted hills and swells designed to capture one's imagination.
To break her concentration, I continue with my explanation, "Avalon's function to manipulate time according to your limited control, in a future fictious material, will be called 'Hyperbolic Time Chamber'. It's not 'time machine' because you can't rid yourself of [Time]'s ultimate influence, which that device should do."
But my attempt fails.
"Mumumumuuuuuu…" She gets into her staring contest even more intently, puffing her cheeks to put more pressure around her orbital bone and make her eyes more intimidating. Sadly, she also fails.
A pair of mismatched individuals, both failing to achieve the short-term, selfish, childish goal they've set for themselves. I have to admit this feels a touch too familiar…
- Pa!
Not wanting to play this game any longer, my hands flash upwards and smack those puffy fleshes back into shape, exploding the air she's holding in her mouth.
"OW!" She jumps back. "T-That really hurts…! Y-You meanie!"
"Isn't it time for your lessons? Let's begin," I calmly push forth the next item in my daily agenda, now I'm stuck here for the foreseeable future.
I'm not sure whether to call my situation advantageous or not. Certainly, as I've alluded before, Avalon has its uses, with this [Time]-altering technique being unavailable to the solely-defensive version I can Trace perfectly. It amazes me more and more the longer I study it, since it appears to have semi-sentience and grant different abilities to different people.
To me – and 'Shirō Emiya', EMIYA, and Proper Human History's Altria Pendragon – it's the ultimate shield and healing tool, saving our lives more times than all four of us could count, centred upon the physical form of the blue-gold sheathe. To Merlin, it's as much her Marble Phantasm home and Noble Phantasm support weapon, centred upon the flower garden she gained her nickname from. To Morgan, it's the spiritual title 'Avalon le Fae' she's working hard to attain, and when she does, she'll not only gain the loyalty and obedience of the various faerie clans – and presumably Cernunnos's acceptance – but also the fulfilment of her entire potential, granting her immense, unmatched strength. Simulations point to a state of invincibility, pushing her to the point she can replace me all those eons ago and fight Velber in my stead.
As it is, I'm about to exit toddlerhood and properly become a young boy. Age-keeping is very difficult here with how Merlin herself can't control the chronological stream around this dimension in relation to the Outside World, so I don't even bother. Again, it can be an advantage or a disadvantage. For example, the future Lancelot gains tremendously from spending a small time in here, when Vivian, Morgan's then-alter ego, trains him personally and ages him to the point he skips an entire generation backwards. He should be in the same age group as Mordred, Gareth, and his own son Galahad, but ends up being older than Gawain and Tristan, bridging the age gap between Uther's Knights of the Round Table and Altria's version. However, there certainly are advantages to be taken in remaining as an innocent babe in the Outside World – Merlin's and Morgan's instant affection towards me the prime examples – growing up around the 'main characters' of this era.
As I am now, my only source of information of the Outside World is through Merlin's unreliable narration and Morgan's occasional reports, plus what Alaya has calculated through the Akashic Records. Fortunately, nothing has gone off the rails yet, though the 'play' is still in its prologue.
Shaking her head at my rather bland response to her teasing, Merlin wraps us in a storm of flower petals, which subsides to show we've either teleported into a well-equipped fantasy-based private classroom… or she just conjured one out of thin air. It's difficult to distinguish the two, with her mastery of the part of Avalon responding to her. Either way, it's very cosy and warm, unlike the pleasant gusts present in Avalon's or Unlimited Blade Works' gently undulating plains, complete with a well-decorated hearth as the room's centrepiece. It's obviously based on my imagination, since she goes through my mind as often as she can whenever I'm leaving openings in my defences, where impossibly-modern school furniture filled the space.
We're sitting on beanbags in front of the fire, where orbs of… something are burning and emitting near-white flames, floating in the middle of the fireplace instead of logically laying on the bottom, looking like spectres. For a modern-minded person like me, Merlin is surprisingly spot-on with her choice of both teaching board and notebook: panels upon panels of solid light flies about, with just the right one settling in front of our eyes when we send a telepathic signal. Still, the cursive she's using shows she's undoubtedly a person from this era, instead of an omniscient magus I was worried she'd be.
If a pawn is too smart for their own good, the game can't be played. Loathe as I am to think of other sentient people like that, I must prioritize my goal as a Heroic Vessel, because the price of failing is the sacrifice of one person. Two failures, and it'll be more. Three failures… Yeah, I get the idea. Not wanting to become like EMIYA or his foster father, I have to be ruthless with myself in this regard, no matter how much I enjoy this kind of social interaction.
Indeed, if there's even one individual with comparable knowledge to me, then said deployment will turn into solely a chess match between however many such individuals are, instead of a tale of salvation. To compare her threat to what I consider my first deployment, for example, she's akin to Enki, whom the body I took over back then was named after, giving that Divine Spirit some measure of control and surveillance over everything I wanted to change.
Fortunately, Merlin's… exactly the person I have prepared to face off against. No surprise there. A powerful individual, yes, but not yet the wise immortal of humanity's distant future, when humanity is about to be incinerated through various means. Nor is her perception frighteningly deep and accurate, like my first lover Gilgamesh, since she's still too distracted by the happenings of the Outside World, and is still affected by her own ambition.
"You are too studious for your own good, you know?" Merlin's voice breaks me out of my internal monologue, managing to do so primarily because of how serious I feel she is. "While I'm not sure of your mortality, every soul has a lifespan. Don't burn out too early."
I can't exactly say that's the purpose of my existence, no? As capable she is with the wider geopolitical situation, implying a core of steely ruthlessness behind that seductive, easy-going persona, she'll undoubtedly freak out if a toddler says this kind of suicidal conviction. Today definitely isn't the time I want her to do so.
Maybe later, but not now. That's too difficult an emotion to empathize and absorb. Even now, Merlin is such a bundle of interesting… personality traits my soul is having a hard time digesting everything so I can better meld into human society in the future. I'm already quite worried, since what if Morgan completes her cloning technique faster than expected? Won't I have to deal with all those independent, powerful personalities by myself?
To Merlin's advice, I obediently nod. "I'll count on you today, Master."
The white-haired succubus starts grinning stupidly when I copy how Morgan addresses her, smiling with a face-melting width. How simple.
As far as I know, the names of the six faerie clans remain the same as the information packet I received when Alaya dropped me off here.
"Wind, leader Aurora. Earth, leader Spriggan. Wing, using a parliamentary system. Fang, leader Wryneck. Mirror, leader Ainsel. King, currently leaderless and in the midst of civil strife. Rain, the royal bodyguards who aren't officially designated as a clan…"
…leader, myself, Heroic Vessel SHIRŌ.
Or that's what Morgan has been telling me she'll do once she's done her part.
Merlin's bell-like voice assumes a more rigid stance than usual, starting her lesson of present-day sociology.
Said 'part' actually has multiple steps to it, which its most rudimentary ones are being done simultaneously by Morgan using her cloning ability. One part is to instil absolute loyalty and love in Altria, enabling Morgan to control everything from the background, relinquishing nothing once her failure to ascend the throne is formalized. Another part is establishing herself as a major player in the faerie clans' political arena, using her mother's thin faerie bloodline to forcibly activate the 'Avalon le Fae' actually inherent in most faeries… They just never bother to research ways to improve oneself, similarly adopting a pitiful struggle of power amongst themselves much like the humans they look down upon.
Merlin's teaching me the background and lay of the land, and I drip-feed her and Morgan the details of Alaya's plan. Which is actually mine. I just borrow its name to have more cache with the more knowledgeable people.
Ah, I'm jumping too far forward. I haven't even discussed what the threat which will cause this Quantum Time Lock to be pruned yet.
To be pedantic, this alternate reality… isn't going to cause irreparable, cancerous destruction of Proper Human History. If left alone, it's simply going to harmlessly correct itself into what [Fate] has determined, leading it down the road where humanity eventually disappears, Alaya following closely behind. It's certainly unlike that forgettable battle between me and Velber – via Sefar – when emergency intervention was necessary, lest the planet would end right then and there. Instead, this deployment is purely for the need of a strong foundation going forward… more of a medium-term project than an instant success.
The plan is simple: to not let Altria run things. Yes, she can sit on the throne, but her decisions are what lead to the ending of the Age of Gods. While I'm no proponent of the culture set in that time, there's no denying humans are better served with a higher level of Conceptual Weight and closer relationship with the planet's Mystery, instead of being a constant annoyance the Counter Force has to cull every now and then. A near-perfect balance was the current Age of Heroes, where humanity can still stand tall in front of various Divine Spirits without being the latter's slaves. I still have work to do on setting up the universal rule which can chain those Divine Spirits, however, to make things fairer for humanity, as well as preventing us mortals to antagonize them even further, which won't end up well for anybody.
To continue, Arthurian mythology is so popular because it's tragically short, filled with – from an omniscient reader's point of view – unnecessary drama and conflicts; nothing a mere sit-down can't solve. Characters were conveniently mute or turned stupid at critical moments just so the narrative engine could continue churning. Obviously, the surviving 'accounts' were all semi-fictional ones, since actual objective reports on what's going on in Arthurian, Roman-age Britain was likely destroyed by various forces, the isles' ruling force not eager to have a figure for peasants to rally behind and incite trouble against them.
However, those 'accounts' were eerily close to the truth, making me think there's a higher entity similar to Alaya who guided people like Nennius, Gildas, Geoffrey, and Chrétien. My standing theory is they were given a glimpse of alternate realities which were nevertheless close to Proper Human History, giving them some measure of creative control… but not too much. For example, the 'Altria' my constituents knew was more akin to an emotionless robot – a living, breathing girl who'd long killed her heart just so she could fulfil her own twisted, subjective opinion on what an 'ideal king' should be. This was in contrast to the aforementioned writers' words, where the figure 'Arthur Pendragon' acted much more humanely and with several irredeemable flaws… just like a regular person, really.
The Altria living right now is actually closer to the latter interpretation: a regular girl with her own thoughts, likes, kinks, and weaknesses. I don't know whether the 'Altria Pendragon' Kiritsugu summoned spent her youth the same way, but I'm intent on not letting it be the same.
Neither does Morgan and Merlin, after Alaya passed what little information it wished to share.
So, how will we go about doing that? Or, to be more precise, how will I?
Everyone has their weaknesses, including me. Recognizing that enables me to find my own bottom line, my compromise. Others may not be the same.
Morgan, for example. As powerful, beautiful, and blessed as she is, she's unbelievably weak to her own ambitions. Alaya and I simply have to present a near-foolproof alternative to her doomed destiny to get her to cooperate. Our success was already clear the instant she attacked her own teacher – who was also her mother-, older sister-figure, even – the instant we revealed some things.
Merlin is next. While it's difficult for a normal human to understand her thought process, it's not impossible give enough personality data. Failure is the thing she fears the most… exactly the same as me. While our personalities are different, this commonality eases my simulation on what she'll do next. Showing the plan she's so meticulously crafted, spanning nearly three generations of Pendragon, was actually not just a poison to the Moonlit World, but also dooming humanity in the long run was enough to drive her to despair. Once again, success was showcased by her lack of resistance as Morgan attacked her that night.
This is the actual first step. Passively controlling Altria via playing with her emotions is something down the line of a very long list.
Second step is… very simple: get stronger.
Both Morgan and Merlin treasure my opinion precisely because they know I am the nameless individual who faced off against Velber. Obviously, with this body, I'm still a long way off from achieving anything. Even speaking out more complex plans is awkward until I have the strength to back up my words. While it's not an unfamiliar problem, and one I have to face again and again with each deployment, it doesn't mean I enjoy having my previous hard work gets reset and necessitates me to chase the ever-moving goal again.
The only positive is my limit isn't affected by the cycle of Mystery, which tends to go up-and-down throughout history and across Textures. Hence, I can expect the same outcome with every unit of energy inputted, without having to adjust to whatever world or reality I'm thrown into.
Still, it's been a long time since I did calisthenics for my neck muscles, since babies lack the most in this area, with how large my head was compared to my body. It's better now as I grow older, but then it's time for flexibility training so my joints can withstand the weight of Unlimited Blade Works' weapons.
Once again, a despicable necessity. 'Shirō Emiya' might be known for his work ethic, but I certainly tire emulating him again and again, since I lack his idealistic naivety. Fortunately, I have literal eternity to refine my methods to achieve the maximum with minimum effort. Hence, things are going smoothly.
"Ector – that's Altria's babysitter to you – has Earth Clan connections, though his bloodline is rather weak. Still, it's impressive he managed to awaken enough to boost his abilities." Merlin shoves a light panel towards me, halting it in front of my eyes and revealing a boulder-like man standing behind his relatively normal-sized party members. "I've guided Uther to use more manpower – or faepower, hah! – from the Reverse Side, but he's surprisingly resistant. Do you have any idea why?"
It's the typical question a teacher will throw at her student to not only make sure he's paying attention, but also has his brain working throughout the lesson. "A sign of a person who's rejected his mystical heritage," I reply quickly, perhaps a tad too coldly as well. "Without you outright mind-controlling him, Master, this is the result when we meddle with humans without the backing of the Akashic Records. Prophecies never account on one's personality, after all."
"Correct!" She remarks happily, easily pleased by the way I'm addressing her very respectfully in this setting, since I'm usually snarking back at her antics as best I can. "He's almost as bad a boy as you!"
Faced with an accusing finger almost bopping my nose, my gaze doesn't flinch. "I think I far outclass a mere man like Uther in regards of being a 'bad boy'," I shamelessly brag with as monotonous a tone as possible. "Hopefully, I will grow up well into a 'bad man'. Please guide me until then, Master."
Again, despite my scandalous words, Merlin is always happy when I address her like that.
Not as troublesome as I thought.
Continuing on her journey across the faeries' various domains, Tonelico shoved in so much Od into her Fairy Eyes to see something she couldn't before.
She, Morgan's clone, was actually just a smidgeon of faerie powers her original body has. In fact, contrary to her childhood belief, Morgan was more Phantasmal Species than a regular human being, unlike Altria who simply had her draconic bloodline forcibly awakened by Merlin. Britannia had chosen, blessed, and empowered Morgan since her birth – a selection more due to coincidence than machination, unlike what her teacher had in store for her younger sister. Both Uther Pendragon and Igraine had traces of mystical blood flowing through them, and this recessive trait combined and manifested inside Morgan, their firstborn, taking away 'Avalon le Fae' from her younger sister. Instead, Altria inherited the remains of Albion via her father's other side, though Morgan also shared a touch of that draconic trait.
As such, Tonelico's physique wasn't constantly under the Reverse Side's natural rejection towards humans. Perhaps after Morgan had completed her training, journey, and conquest of the faeries would her human side be fully acclimated and integrated into the maelstrom existing between the two dimensions, but not now. Currently, only fully-realized hybrids like Merlin could comfortably walk the two realms, or freaks of nature like the baby Sirius.
The latter hadn't been tested yet, but Morgan was certain he could do it. There's a certain aura of [Luck] around him she could feel her younger sister also possessed… a sense everything would go their way even if they lazed around. It's something she hated, though since Alaya had given her a way to act on that hatred, she'd tolerate it.
For now.
Fairy Eyes came naturally as Morgan embraced her mystical side when activating Tonelico, unlike the various Mystic Eyes of legend which would demand sacrifices if mortals wielded them. Its function was purely to detect lies, though faeries had lived long enough to figure out ways around that. Still, it at least made for a more forthright society than the conniving, scheming one humans seemed to be fond of maintaining until its destruction, so Tonelico preferred it here. One less avenue to think about.
She's pumping her magic energy so she could observe which individual to approach, using Sirius's specialized Magecraft of Alteration to modify its function. He claimed her eyes could now be used to measure one's 'protagonist power' – whatever that meant – which Tonelico translated into 'powers of [Fate]'.
In short, those who shone in her eyes were worthwhile of her time and money.
…however, trying out this version of Fairy Eyes in Avalon had been a mistake. She was nearly blinded when gazing upon both Sirius and Merlin who were studying in the same room, instantly forcing Tonelico inactive and causing great knockback effect on Morgan.
Now, back to the task at hand.
Tonelico quickly found a guide so her touristy behaviour wasn't suspicious, becoming a pseudo-shield against peering gazes. Well, two guides, to be more precise: an adorable pink-haired rabbit-like faerie named Totorot – "I'm a cat, though!" – and her companion, an equally-cute large fluffy-white puppy named Grimr. The latter couldn't speak, though Tonelico suspected it's merely a ruse hiding its true intelligence… or its controller, as traces of Saxon [Divinity] could be detected from its body.
It's quite strange to see two species normally at each other's throats going along so well, and a pairing very easy on the eyes, at that. Grimr wasn't much smaller than Totorot, though this was due to the latter's diminutive stature, barely reaching up to Tonelico's stomach, so the puppy looked a lot larger than it should when they stood side-by-side. In fact, she hypothesized the pink-haired one often used the dog as a mount at times. And what a sight would that be!
Tonelico noted, 'Image-capturing spell. Must research image-capturing spell. Immediately.'
Compared to the Outer World, which was still reeling from the Roman Empire's exit and Anglo-Saxon passive invasion, 'Faerie Britannia' was an immensely modern society. In fact, the only place Tonelico could somewhat compare to the Outer World was the simplistic huts of Cornwall, but the presence of clean water, temperature-regulating Magecraft, permanent lighting fixtures, and educational facilities made it a far cry from its trans-dimensional counterpart.
Because she was on a focused mission, she simply asked Totorot whether she had a way of projecting the state of various large metropolis virtually. In the end, they settled on a memory-reading spell projected onto her signature [Water Mirror] spell. The thin layer of water was spread across one entire wall of their room inside an inn in Salisbury, which in itself felt centuries more advanced than its namesake. Certainly, there's no mortared brick building as clean and well-maintained on the other side, nor a beautifully-designed fountain which gave off a serene, relaxing feeling in the town's square. Everything was assembled magically to the point no seam was visible regardless of the material: stone, wood, mud, etc.
"This one's a terrible place, nya! They kicked me out last time!" Totorot whined when an image of Ash Tree Cathedral flashed into view. "Those damned Christians managed to change the landscape even here, nya!"
Yes, there shouldn't be any foreign cultural trace here, but despite their separation, both sides of the planet shared an irrefutable connection. A change in one spot could very well cause an equal shift on the other side… but Tonelico had to admit, she was shocked at how well-built the church was. It meant that spot's Outer Texture had fully converted to this religion down to the last man, for their belief to be able to automatically erect this kind of quality structure. It's only obvious once she understood that why that place was rather hostile to Totorot, who's as native 'barbarian' as she came.
"So whose place should I visit next? If possible, the house who you think should win the election next time," Tonelico pandered. "If there's any companion of yours along the way, then I'll gladly welcome them to our group. I have money."
- Ching!
She patted the pouch by her side, the gold coins within it jangling. Faeries, by nature, weren't a species running on material wealth, but currency was still useful. After all, Tonelico didn't have a habit of lugging around pristinely-butchered human meat as methods of trade, so this would have to do.
"Woof!"
"Ah, ol' Wryneck! Good idea, Grimr!" Totorot exclaimed, brutally patting the hardy puppy on its back. Well, as 'brutal' as someone her size could muster, which turned out as perfectly-pleasurable rubs on the dog. "It's a grouchy flame dragon, but he's a softie on the inside! I'm sure you'll get along."
'Wryneck… My ancestor…?' Tonelico theorized. She certainly recalled, as Morgan, of an etymologically-similar name on the Pendragon family tree. If correct, then he should also be a descendant of Albion, no…? "A fine idea. Let's rest for tonight, and you can take me on a sightsee of the surrounding shire. We can visit your… friend along the way, if convenient."
"Well… he usually flies around, so we should just continue our travel and hope we're lucky," Totorot sheepishly rubbed the back of her tiny neck. "Nya… I'm sleepy, now that you mention it…"
"Woof…" Grimr whimpered, smartly hopping atop the bedside dresser and pawed off the light switch, dimming the room to its 'night mode' with its orange-red glow. "Phew…"
Before long, the dog snored off, followed by Totorot rubbing her eyes and clambering atop the other bed. Shaking her head, Tonelico sighed, savouring the first chance to relax in so many days of travel, plopping onto her own bed while using Grimr as a fluffy white bolster.
It's too bad she let her guard down too much, or she would've recognized a familiar glint flashing across the puppy's eyes.
The same as Altria's own: a touch of lust from the warm hug.
Uther gazed around his Round Table, his eyes seemingly glued onto one particular empty seat at moments. His knights knew this wasn't due to lingering overattachment to the owner of the seat – that would be Sir Ector – but what it entailed: his children, currently so far away beyond his reach. Any sort of accident, despite Merlin's magical messaging setup, would need at least one day for him to be informed.
He wouldn't be there when his children perished from this world. Any kind of mortal injury, and he'd be too late to send for help. Of course, this was precisely why Sir Ector was there: to become the adult, calm head among a group of teenagers, steering them from insurmountable odds and fatal dead ends.
But Uther wasn't blind to the threats even his trusted knight couldn't protect himself from, much less the royal children. Monster outbreak was being handled well recently, but what if some ancestral beings began to move due to the empty spaces present? His kingdom might not be besieged by Anglo-Saxon confederations, but what if those tribal leaders decided to invade some other place tomorrow? Coincidentally the same place Morgan and Altria were in? Merlin had enchanted Castle Camelot against assassinations and foul plays, both magical and mundane, but did this protection extend towards his children? To use them against him?
Not to mention his relationship with Igraine had been cold, ever since he made the hard decision to send them away. She tolerated the truth of her former husband's, Gorlois, death at Uther's machinations, since he wasn't treating her right anyway with nothing but a sting on her dignity. Widows, however pitiful, weren't viewed in the greatest of light anywhere in this time. However, the peaceful, loving family life she expected to have ended just the following year, when Uther wrested Altria from her arms, still swaddled in baby cloth, and proclaimed he was doing it for their children's safety and best interest.
Morgan's last gaze upon their parents was unforgettable, though she left without a word. No tears, no sound, no dragging her feet.
That night, it felt like they were strangers to her.
Oh, he tried to reconcile. Magical voice notes were exchanged as often as he could, but Morgan's ability to repeatedly confound the old-fashioned messaging system Merlin installed in the castle was astounding, even that then-early age of hers. Ector – bless the honest man – would diligently send reports back, but he had to rely on the traditional postal service since Morgan refused to teleport his parchments back to Camelot, citing it's an easily-traceable method enemy magi might use to infiltrate the castle. Physical letters, she argued, was looked down upon and thus safer.
He hadn't heard her voice in more than a decade.
And neither had he heard Igraine's in nearly 3 nights.
His wife had locked herself away in her personal wing after their latest spat of soft arguments. No, there weren't shouts, insults, thrown objects, or physical harm, since Uther utterly despised such a sight more common in tavern brawls than a married couple's personal space, but it was a fight nonetheless. In a male-dominated society, without Merlin, the only other prominent female figure in the castle, he was lost how to approach his lovely wife, still so beautiful after all these years.
Did Morgan inherit her mother's appearance? Did Altria, even? Their mother was the fairest in the land, at least among her generation – the primary reason why Uther was so smitten and debased himself into deceit to take her hand in marriage. However, out there, outside of Castle Camelot and beyond his sight? Wouldn't that beauty become a curse?
Dear gods and spirits, he's already full of hatred against himself. What would he do if something truly happened to the siblings?
He looked around his Round Table again. Old friends, battlefield comrades, former enemies, and loyal relatives. Many had passed away, their seats left unfilled. Some passed heroically in battle, others executed as traitors. Most were Britons, some were Franks.
Pellinore, king of Listenoise.
Bagdemagus, king of Gorre.
Brunor the Black, the Fearless Knight.
Cador, Duke of Cornwall.
Ector, the Immortal.
Esclabor, the exiled Saracen king and the sole Muslim.
Gornemant of Gohort.
Leodegrance, king of Cameliard… and his father-in-law, as well as the Round Table's original owner.
Bors the Elder, king of Gaunnes, from Frank.
Vortigern… his brother.
Sooner or later, they'd all be gone, either before or after him. He could only pray this Round Table, more than Castle Camelot, got passed down to his children. This was the most important political tool he had; more powerful than the sword on his hip, stronger than the castle walls he's so proud of. A symbol of alliance amidst selfish battle royale and free-for-alls, the last bastion of justice among evil.
…or so he wished it to be.
Reality was both cruel and honest, revealing the cracks among the friendship he once thought true and eternal. Some were revealed to be Roman spies, escaping with their tails between their legs on their true master's ships and protected by their army. Some were too weak to resist the Anglo-Saxon fangs, their castles razed and lands destroyed before Uther could send aid. Some allied with the Picts and Scots up north, safe in the knowledge the Roman walls would hinder Uther's vengeful pursuit.
Instead of fulfilling the united Britannia he dreamt of, Uther felt he'd spent his life chasing his tail around, running the same circle over and over again. The Pendragon Clan grew… only in relation to its past self. Compared to his real opponents, his strength might as be on a standstill, as they either improved as well or replaced by others more powerful. This was discounting the treat from the Reverse Side, which Uther was always wary of. Humans were no more than lambs to be slaughtered by them, and even though a pact existed so they couldn't prey on humans rampantly, he felt it's only a matter of time before the island was overrun and humanity going extinct.
This was why he clung onto Merlin's prophecy so readily and fastidiously. He might call himself king, but his eyes couldn't peer through the encroaching darkness about to swallow his people whole. Any kind of light was a road worth travelling on, and he was fortunate enough his court magus was a good person, despite her inhuman origins.
"Shall we return to our discussion?" A young, yet commanding voice interrupted his musings.
Uther's gaze snapped back to the speaker: his younger brother, Vortigern. Those words typically would've warranted some form of punishment, but the combination of the ashen-haired man's status and… well, the purpose of the Round Table itself enabled those who sat around it great freedom to speak their mind, provided they kept to a basic level of courtesy. Just as much as the Table discouraged swords to the neck as punishment, so too it rejected usage of swords as threats or negotiating tactic.
Only wit, wisdom, achievement, and charisma were worthy currency to be traded here.
Also, Vortigern was the general of the north, so to speak.
Unlike most of the Round Table's current members, he held the largest number of men under the Pendragon banner, as their sole line of defence against the Picts and Scots up north. Currently, Britannia could be roughly divided into three sections: north, east, and west… and technically south, if one counted the colony in Brittany, though that's as far removed a settlement as possible, with little-to-no political power or influence over what's happening in this island.
The north, as mentioned before, was occupied by the Picts and Scots. While they were… more native than the ones living south of them, none of them was ever the sort to strive for a united Britannia, always running around and threatening commoners' lives in the name of 'independence' and 'freedom' – whether it was against the Celts, the Romans, or the Anglo-Saxons. In fact, the latter was a touch smarter in dealing with a confederacy of tribes like those two, and was already successful in their usual tactic of dividing and conquering, infiltrating the small courts of those narrow-minded and short-sighted chieftains while controlling them behind the scenes.
Uther had to admit it was a brilliantly-executed strategy, more so when one considered it had to be done by different Anglo-Saxon leaders and speakers from different villages and backgrounds, yet the result was eerily consistent and successful. It was, to be honest, more difficult to deal with compared to the Romans, who came with their spears and shields drawn, as the Anglo-Saxon came bearing gifts and manpower instead. Taking advantage of the lull between the Roman retreat and Briton self-independence, they wormed and latched onto every ounce of life in this island, to the point removing them would be more akin to lopping every limb in one's body in hope of excising the disease.
It used to be so simple, back when Queen Boudica was still resisting Roman invasion. All they had to do was fight to the death and hope for the best, every tactic in the book legitimate. Until Empress Nero came to take her hand in marriage, Britannia was a constant and most lethal thorn in the Roman Empire's side, the unattainable land full of mystery and riches. After the union and subservience, those 'barbaric' tactics were out the window, as every male and female warrior on this island had known selfishness and cowardly survival instincts, unable to be talked into laying their lives alongside their liege under a banner of unity.
Instead, if asked, they would immediately conspire so only their superiors perished, and they lived to reap the benefits afterwards. It's this part of Briton psychology the Anglo-Saxons understood very well, using their own poison against them. Uther lacked their international experience in dealing with infinitely varied cultures, and despite realizing this, had no idea how to improve himself bar abandoning the throne to his immature children and leaving this problem to them.
Shaking his head, he immediately replied, "Of course, Lord Vortigern. Do lead on."
They were here, as was usually the case when Vortigern's presence was required, to discuss further plans to resist future northern skirmishes. The walls the Roman left behind served the eastern and western kingdoms well, halting the Picts' and Scots' progress, but it also inhibited any campaigns to vanquish them to their roots. As such, it became almost an annual tradition to prepare for battle whenever the season's convenient, further weakening Britannia's whole with the same infighting they were mocking the current Romans with.
"I would like to recall Her Highness, the Royal Princess, back to Camelot."
The Round Table's occupants froze, their eyes fixed upon the king to read his thoughts.
Predictably, Uther's face was filled with fury.
However, the incoming storm was all-too-soon dissipated by Vortigern's interruption, as he rapidly continued, "I have reasons to believe the Reverse Side of the Picts' and Scots' Textures have joined sides with them. They're about to field phantasmal soldiers in the next skirmish next month."
Leodegrance, the oldest knight present, followed up to prevent his son-in-law exploding in anger, "I thought the Celts have all went to Ireland! And didn't we have a peace treaty with them as well?!"
"I never said it was the Celts," Vortigern countered. "I'm not even sure what to call them, since my men disappeared before they could inform me of further information. Also… they may be those we haven't met before."
All this time, the wars on the Outer World were fought by humanity, after the downfall of the Age of Gods and the beginning of the Age of Heroes. Long gone was the makhia of old, where a grand cataclysmic battle was fought between Phantasmal Species and Divine Spirits, with humanity nothing more than collateral fodder. When Mystery levels dipped to the point these 'gods' couldn't sustain a permanent physical form in the Outer World, they began using proxies – champions and priests alike – to vie for territory, fighting to gain believers left and right to stave off their extinction. This was why the cunning YHWH chose to worm His way into the current era's juggernaut, the Roman Empire, instead of building his worshipper base by maintaining the 'original blood', so to speak. The latter's prime example was Morgan, who was so supported by Britannia's Reverse Side precisely because she was of Briton blood. Christianity – and to a lesser extent, Islam – wasn't so picky, YHWH spreading His blessing and lending His strength wherever benefitted Him.
The 'Celts' Leodegrance mentioned weren't actually the pure-blooded tribe members from Continental Europe all those millennia ago, but their descendants who had already merged and become Britons themselves. These days, that name was merely the name of a neighbouring state with acceptably similar origins. They were concentrated in Ireland, and experienced the same restriction in regards to their native Thaumaturgical Foundation, ironically purer than even compared to their descendants in the mainland due to the natural isolation, where only those with pure enough bloodline could still trigger their Sorcery Traits and learn their native spells. They were being driven to extinction by each generation, and as such chose to avoid direct confrontation against the Thaumaturgical Foundation of Britannia, choosing peaceful alliance instead. This was mirrored by their Outer World geopolitics, which lead to Leodegrance's comment earlier.
Additionally, unlike the faeries, they no longer had any remaining patron-level Divine Spirit. The only one who's still going strong was Scáthach, and that was solely due to parasitic trickery of the Anglo-Saxon pantheon. Erin, their equivalent to the current faeries' domains in the Reverse Side, had long perished. Scáthach's Land of Shadows, a place of [Death], was more akin to a floating bubble inside a turbulent ocean current compared to its heyday.
"We need Princess Morgan here, Uther, more than ever."
Those were Vortigern's closing remark after the past few minutes were spent listening to the Pendragon Clan Head's… to him, baseless and subjective arguments. He'd known his older brother all his life, of course, and simply let him rant on and on, trusting Uther would never abandon the ruthless side in him which had caused him great troubles in his life, as well as provided him with life's greatest pleasures. They were both too much alike, in that regard.
The only difference was… Vortigern was truly selfish, and not a half-assed, delusional person who justified everything questionable he'd done with weak excuses, often citing 'for the greater good', 'for the people', 'sacrificing for the whole', etc. A self-hypnosis so powerful even the liar believed in his own lies, allowing it to not only dictate his body, but affect his spirit as well, forming a closed loop from which an increasingly degenerate being evolved.
The meeting was soon concluded, after the Knights decided Uther was in too poor a mental state to continue. Besides, it's nothing more than a regular meet-up bar Vortigern's verbal bomb, as they're already familiar with the roles they'd been given and how they should mobilize their independent forces if direct orders from Camelot was late or unforthcoming.
As of now, they were at an impasse with the continuous push of Anglo-Saxon influence from directly their east, the 'native' Briton kingdoms congregated around the isle's southwestern chunk. Their opponent had access to better-developed cities and ports, since the southeastern part had always been the first contact point for any incoming arrivals, whether it's culture, technology, or invaders, resulting in a more tolerant landscape. So tolerant, in fact, there were rumours large parts of the 'natives' were already considering betraying their station and giving into the promises of wealth and peace from the Anglo-Saxons.
As was mentioned previously, to their west across the channel laid their allies, the remnants of the Celts, but they, too, were amalgamation of Irish tribes and couldn't be counted upon to send any united reinforcement any time Uther requested it. South… was quite hopeless, despite the Round Table counting a Frankish and Saracen kings around it. Other than those two's… admittedly small available mobile resources, forging alliances and pacts with the confederacies now busier with thinking which part of the Roman Empire should be theirs for the taking would take far too long. Besides, Vortigern's older brother always had… a suboptimal mouth on his head, leaving the talking to him instead. This was how he easily secured the funding and forces under him, the largest in the Round Table even over that stationed in Castle Camelot, to face off against the Picts and Scots.
A tall order for one man.
Vortigern was making his way to his temporary room, the same personal one he'd grown up in when he was a boy. After all Castle Camelot's inhabitants were dwindling, with Uther's seemingly latest obsession on sending away anyone he cared about, so Vortigern had freedom of the house, really. It's not like it's bursting with guests, even with the members of the Round Table sleeping here for the night.
- Bzzt…
An innocuous dragonfly flew into the same corridor he's walking in.
His status as a respected battlefield general, instead of just some high-ranking royalty, meant his words held a lot of weight among the low-ranking knights staffing the castle's interior. As such, he could casually send them away by saying he preferred the privacy of walking alone with his thoughts to his room, adding with such a fine garrison, he had nothing to worry about regarding assassins and such.
- Bzzt…
His familiar didn't land on his shoulder, but merely kept flying along, buzzing by the side of his ears. While it's far from natural, since unintelligent insects like this one wouldn't have the instinctive behaviour to accompany humans, unlike felines or canines, it's better than having it calmly perch atop his shoulders like a falcon, which would immediately sound alarm bells Magecraft was being used unauthorized in this castle. Even with his status as the lord's younger brother, Vortigern wouldn't be able to get away with that, especially if Uther managed to blabber about this event to Merlin.
- Bzzt… Bzzt… Bzzt…
As the information passed through him semi-telepathically – not a pure one, as it relied on audio cues which were then translated by a spell engraved upon his brain – he sighed and hung his head. With one wave of the hand, he dismissed the dragonfly, sending it through one of the cracked-open windows nearby.
"What a fool you are, brother…"
Now, Vortigern would be the first to admit he's far from his brother's kingly virtues. For one, he simply couldn't bring himself to care about an insignificant other, unlike Uther who was beset daily and nightly by such worrisome thoughts. It definitely impacted poor Igraine, that unfortunate girl, as it damaged their already-estranged marriage even further. There might be love there sometime in the past, but now…? Vortigern wouldn't be too bold to assume even he had a chance of wooing the lonely wife, and he wasn't that much into the decadence of women.
Power, on the other hand…
How could Uther not see it? The necessary level of strength to not only achieve his dream of a united Britannia, but also to conquer his fellow neighbours, not just the obvious opponents in front of his eyes. The latter also required resolve – one Uther was half-assing as always, having the courage to reject his wife's pleas and send his children away, but none whatsoever to send his men to their seemingly-fruitless deaths, with the benefits becoming clearer later on. He even had the 'brilliant' idea of human supremacy above the mystical, saying so in front of Merlin!
The white-haired woman was as unfathomable as always, since she didn't deign to shoot a fatal light beam upon Uther for that gravest insult. In essence, the king was championing the reversal of the Age of Gods; to make humans the lord of this planet and all its inhabitants, including the ones in the Reverse Side. To be fair, it's not something he said out of intentional malice; it's simply the belief he embraced in his years alive and ruling the nation. As proof, he happily allowed Merlin into his court once she proved her usefulness, as well as not immediately executing Morgan when not only was she born a girl – meaning the title 'first born' was now meaningless – but exhibited great magical talents. If so, Uther would've joined those Christian fanatics and persecute anyone not of the same religion. Ironically, that's one thing he and his Anglo-Saxon opponents had in common: hatred over fanaticism.
That practice only went rampant after Empress Nero's passing, completely throwing away the goodwill she showed towards the burgeoning religion. While she couldn't do anything to prevent Jesus's now-famed crucifixion, she ensured his disciples and followers received equal treatment in front of Roman law, in contrast to the persecution – seeing a theme here… – they received when they travelled to spread the gospel where the Empire's influence was weak. So of course after she died, the Christians' negative suppressed emotions exploded, and now they're doing the persecuting.
Circle of life, and all that.
Still Vortigern couldn't help but feel sympathetic towards those guys as he settled into his room. It's as simple a prince's personal bedchamber could be decorated. After all, they had so many parallels.
Perhaps the single most expensive furniture in the room was the body-length mirror, still so difficult to make even after all these years of progress. On the outside, it was a gift from his older brother when he attained his current military rank… but only the frame remained of that object, and not unmolested at that. The actual mirror, now, was magically-treated silver mercury, enchanted to appear as a regular mirror when left alone, but as Vortigern walked in front of it, its surface gently rippled, so slow as if it's a viscous lava. Naturally, this object couldn't be contained normally, and thus said frame was carved to the last millimetre on the inside, also hidden from view.
The image he wished to see required some time to load, so he undressed and leant against the frame with his forearms, as if the day's travails had exhausted him.
'Princess Morgan Pendragon…'
The last time he saw the runt was actually not so long ago, as he's not as averse to voyeuristic spells as Uther. She and her party just so happened to pass nearby – only a small mountain separated them – and his automated detection Magecraft lit up… mostly due to Altria's unchecked Od emission, as it's equally impossible to scry against Morgan as her esteemed teacher. Wherever that younger princess went, her older sister would surely follow.
Back then, he couldn't help but smile at the realization of what he's feeling, compared to others around her.
To him, who also had Fairy Eyes – unbeknownst to everyone on the Round Table – it's a simple exercise to gauge the level of [Lust] Morgan generated just by walking around, such was her blooming beauty. 'Must be annoying, isn't it, dear niece?' He thought at the time, lamenting the unchanged nature of male-female sexual relationships and social hierarchy.
Yes, he also felt [Lust] in a conceptual way towards her… but not for her external appearance.
He requested to call her back… because he wished to take what she held inside of her. Her power…
"About time," he grunted, as the semisolid mirror's ripples settled. "Were you discovered?"
[Who do you think I am?] A frivolous, excited voice instantly shot back, moments before the image cleared up. [Why don't you come over here and sneak around that dumb furry giant beast? See if you can't evade Lil' Pandora?]
Vortigern narrowed his eyes, replying in silence.
An ashen, shoulder-length hair, looking round because of his skeletal structure around his face. A tempered yet thin body, almost lanky in appearance, with a minor hunch where his shoulder epaulets usually attached themselves to. A thick black cloak fluttered behind him, dark as night, with a special weave to make it appear closer to thin carapace.
He's looking at himself, but not because he's looking at a mirror.
The other person was simply his other self.
"Get ready, Oberon. I'll chop off Uther's head soon."
Vortigern, the [King], and his clone, Oberon, the [Calamity], continued speaking into the night, inside the magically-soundproofed room.