Fate was a fickle thing, sometimes beneficial, other times construed to the whims of lesser evils, and Merlin was both fate's guide and watcher. He could see what was coming, knew it was coming, and opted to facilitate it as efficiently as possible…for everyone's sake.

Life wasn't always about the short term, but the long term.

/-/

Near the boundary of the forest Lancer Arturia secluded herself with her family, a caravan that stretched ten wagons long was passing through a dirt road. The wagons were large and pulled by two horses each directed by a single driver that sat on a seat in front of the wagon. There were no discernable signs or symbols over the wagons, nor did the traveling party fly a flag detailing their allegiance to land's ruling parties or invaders. Instead, the goods carried on the wagons were large cages covered in make-shift tarps.

Whatever goods they were transporting, the caravan leaders didn't want them to be seen to avoid drawing attention.

The lands were rife with conflict, and with any conflict, there were political snakes and jackals that swooped in for opportunity. The snakes infiltrated noble houses and the aristocracy with glib tongue and promises of riches, while the jackals profited from plunder left behind through skirmishes. Many such skirmishes may as well have been orchestrated and directly raided considering if it was a village or settlement unequipped with a town guard or militia.

The current convoy was a convoy of scheming jackals.

"Pick up the pace!" A gruff woman with a scar over her eye tugged on the end of a rope with a scowl. "Goods like you all only sell after proper training."

No reply.

Following the trail of rope the woman tugged on, a line of malnourished slaves could be seen forced to trek alongside the wagons. They wore whatever they could. Some in rags, others still in fair conditioned tunics and trousers.

Survivors of wars and battles they were, but not of the warrior sort. Rather, they were composed of cowards who fled, civilians forced out of their homes, or the poor and destitute picked up off the streets. The poor were worth little, but their desperation between slavery or life made exploiting their vulnerability with food that much easier.

The wrists of the slaves were bound in hemp rope, and knotted so that each was securely tied to the other.

The eyes of the slave nearest to the woman narrowed in contempt, but lowered when the woman glared back.

The slave could take her. It would be easy. She was a woman a full head shorter, but she was armed, and had the support of her cohort of fellow slavers.

Giving up now the only option if the alternative was only death.

Britain was in shambles. Either that, or it would soon be.

Slaving was just another evil that continued to fester, left open and sore, utterly untreated in light of other more important matters of the political elite.

The slave market was rife with profit to be had from the displaced or vulnerable whose homes and communities had been pillaged or sacked by Saxon raider teams.

Poor bastards, but it was a better fate than getting caught up in the civil war between Morgan the Fair, and King Vortigern, her uncle. The kingdom would sooner fall to infighting than the imminent threat of the Saxons.

"Hmph, good. You know your place," the gruff woman barked out a laugh and turned her attention back onto the road ahead.

Unlike the slaves, the woman was on horseback. It was a short horse. Lame of foot, and decorated to look greater than what it was. Its coat was a dirty brown, and it hemmed and hawed with every step, annoyed and skittish about the forest ahead.

The horse was something the woman appeared particularly proud of.

Too stupid to realize it was just a donkey. Others, the farmers turned slaves, could only hold their scorn back.

Still, it made her seem taller than the slaves which she towed in line, and the slaves couldn't reason that they'd rather be on a donkey than on their feet.

Not another word was said by the woman thereafter, likely viewing it as a waste of her time.

With such a large convoy of smugglers, and night creeping over the horizon, it wasn't long before the caravan broke to make a camp.

The woman that had been dragging the rope connected to the slaves, joined the other slavers in a different section of the camp where the smell of bread and butter permeated. In contrast, the slaves were hoarded and watched like animals, the stench of shit and urine reeking from days, weeks, or even months without the chance to wash off at a river.

It was while the slavers were easing into their supper that a certain slave took note of the Caravan Master and his armed escorts falling dead drunk in their own folly.

This slave was different from others.

He was both built and tall, making it a wonder how any of the slavers could have managed to capture him. Short blond hair framed his bangs, and his eyes were filled with righteous vigour. His body was covered by a tattered cloak, likely more for appearance than anything else as it hid the robustness of his muscles.

Callused hands and sturdy forearms spoke of a man trained with a weapon, and not some simple farm hand. Rather, his disposition was closer to noble than ordinary.

Glaring in the direction of the Caravan Master and the slavers, the man made sure the guards on watch were preoccupied before subtly burning through the rope that bound his wrists.

!?

He shushed the other slaves who widened their eyes before he moved to covertly free them. He pointed at the forest, and told them to wait for a signal to run. The trees and the darkness of night would help cover their figures from pursuers.

Their numbers vastly outnumbered the slavers. It would be impossible to recapture all of them in the event of an escape.

More importantly, they could get caught up in the crossfire.

Meanwhile, he had to find his sword which he stashed in the forest.

The sun's light would pierce through this land's darkness yet.

Staying cooped up at home was stifling for Artus and Annabel. Helping their mother prepare meals, dry laundry, and teach them etiquette wasn't so bad, but it was boring. It was only fun when their mother spoke about tales of knights and swords, and demon pigs who shit only to make life difficult.

Still, Artus and Annabel would much rather join their father to hunt or fish, but it was that time of day again. Noon.

Their father always left regularly to tend to errands he never brought them on, and no amount of questioning gave them any answers from either their mom or dad. Meanwhile, their mom insisted she was under their father's household apprenticeship training, and took it far too seriously.

"Finally free!" Annabelle cheered, sprinting away from the house before their mother could egg them on chores they still needed to do.

Artus followed right along, just as enthused. Their mother shook her head at them from the kitchen window, letting them run off to enjoy themselves as she hummed a soft tune.

/-/

Artus and Annabel faced each other at a clearing, each assessing the other after making sure their parents weren't around.

Efret stood on the side, acting as a guardian that warded away predators with its presence.

From Annabel, a torrent of blue energy exploded around her which she gleefully guided to her fists. The same energy erupted from Artus, but he directed it to act as a flame-like aura that surrounded him.

It was a bastardized version of Mana Burst that neither was aware of.

"I told you it's best if you distribute it evenly rather than focus all the special power to your fists," Artus chided.

"Say that after you man up and take a blow!" Annabel grouched, focusing on her fists before staring back at Artus. "Can't you see I made the energy bigger? Bet I could punch a tree down, can you?"

"What you do, I can do," Artus said, mimicking Annabel and gathering his explosive aura to his fists before shaking his head and dissipating it. "Doesn't mean I will. Mother always says technique is key."

"If an enemy didn't fall on the first punch, you just didn't use enough power," Annabel insisted.

"Say that after you land a hit on me. That's why I'm telling you to distribute the power evenly."

"Then spar, and I'll prove I'm right," Annabel goaded.

Artus wasn't falling for it, and reeled in his energy. "We can't. What if mom and dad find out? What do we tell them? That we're monsters?"

Annabel frowned, her brows knitting before she evntually drew back her energy like Artus.

"I'm papa's favorite. He'd never hate me."

"Our parents don't do favorites. But mom also said 'people fear what they don't know,' and mom and dad don't know we can do this..."

"Fine. No sparring."

The two were just kids and didn't want to be hated by their parents. Their father had told them a story about an ugly duckling. Annabel and Artus were smart for their age, so they understood the premise that those who were different could be shunned.

They would cry if their parents ever rejected them or looked at them with fear.

In truth, it was a needless concern.

Artus and Annabel were ignorant that their 'powers' were derived through the potency of their bloodline. Like their parents, they possessed Magic Cores, but unlike Arturia who'd been trained to use it from Merlin, the two had discovered it by accident and were just experimenting.

The result wouldn't have been like this if Lancer Arturia wasn't dead-set on giving her children a 'normal' life, but she was scared and stubborn for reasons only she would know. Experience was a double-edged sword.

"Maybe they wouldn't hear us if we went far enough?" Annabel suggested, nimbly walking towards a distinct line of depressed grass, shrubs, and strange symbols dug into the dirt.

Just as Annabel was going to venture over it, Artus stopped her.

"Where do you think you're going?" Artus grabbed Annabel by the wrist and scolded, pointing down at the ground where the boundary line their father set up was. "Dad said we shouldn't leave the other side of the marker. We could get lost, or run into wild animals, or monsters. Besides, it's getting late."

Efret nodded from atop Artus's shoulder, but for a different reason. The marker was the perimeter of a bounded field Lancer Arturia's Shirou had set up.

Annabel mulled over her brother's words. The sky was getting dark, but there was still enough light to navigate the forest if they used their energy as a light source.

The call of adventure was gradually swaying Annabel's mind, but what set it off was the shouting and loud thuds in the distance. A flock of birds flew up from the distant foliage, much to the surprise of the siblings.

"That doesn't sound like a fight between animals," Artus murmured, carefully putting a hand on the stick he'd picked up and considered his practice sword.

Annabel had a smaller stick of her own around the sash on her waist.

"The sounds are coming from over there?" Annabel's eyes gleamed with curiosity. "If we put our power to our feet and sprint there, we can make it. C'mon let's just take a peek, and then we can come right back?"

Artus pictured his mother's disappointed face, and the threat of his father withholding his cooking as punishment.

"Mother will scold us, and father won't be happy." Artus said automatically.

Annabel's eye twitched as she whined and jutted a finger at Artus's sternum. "Bah! You're just a coward."

"And you don't listen." Artus controlled his expression. His mother's poker face was the stuff of legend, and he was doing his best to emulate it.

"Coward!" Annabel pressed a finger repeatedly on Artus's chest.

"Anabe-"

"Coward!" She gave him the stink eye.

"If you think this makes you better than-"

"Coward!" She raised her chin at him. Little sisters. No respect.

Artus glared, his hands balling into fists as he constantly reminded himself of his mother's lectures, and his father's insistence to watch after his sister. To not endanger her when she was being impulsive.

Mother said it best.

Be better. Not worse-

"Mom calls you a little lion, but look at you! A little rat, a- weasel!"

Artus stilled, composed features finally breaking into a sneer.

"...I shouldn't be falling for this." He seethed, teeth grinding as he loosened his grip on Annabel's wrist much to her delight. "I really shouldn't, but I am no weasel!"

Annabel suddenly grinned, patting her brother's shoulders in encouragement.

"Yes, we're Dragons, and Dragons fear nothing."

Efret shook its head, disagreeing.

Lancer Arturia curled her lips while idly lost in her thoughts.

Her kids had gone off again, likely on another misadventure they'd regale her about when they returned. Neither she nor Shirou minded giving their children freedom.

Most animals or predators would flee with Efret as their 'pet' tag along anyway, and their children knew not to venture too far away from the house or forest.

Her Shirou also set up a wide bounded field to act as surveillance, so leave it to him to ensure her peace of mind. He was lovable like that. Really, she thought her current life was blessed.

But today, her children did not return even as night fell.

Lancer Arturia's expression instantly changed with apprehension fueled focus.

She'd given up Caliburn to Morgan. Even if Morgan couldn't use it, it was enough that she carried it on her, or gave the illusion that she could wield it to the masses. The only reason Morgan couldn't use this tactic before was that Caliburn was stuck in the stone.

Nonetheless, even if Caliburn was no longer with her, it didn't mean that Lancer Arturia was without a weapon.

Lancer Arturia untied the knot of her apron, and took the apron off, tossing it to hang over a chair. Then she stepped out of her house and stared at the dark forest.

The sound of footsteps echoed before Shirou walked up to her, scratching the back of his head.

"You once told me that I shouldn't resort to spanking, but I'm going to spank them," Lancer Arturia hissed. "I know the limit between debilitating and painful to the finest detail. How dare they?"

"If only Sir Ector could hear you now-ouch."

Lancer Arturia huffed after planting her heel over Shirou's foot. She knew exactly what he was getting at as she hadn't been the most obedient to Sir Ector either. Don't run into danger, he'd said. Don't run into war, he'd also said. Well she did that and more.

"Do as I say, and not as I do," Lancer Arturia said, blushing. "It's different. Has Efret said anything?" She changed the subject.

Shirou fell into silence, his eyes closing as he communicated inwardly. Then, when he opened his eyes, he shook his head incredulously at Lancer Arturia.

"Efret said something about baby steps, and that all hatchlings must be thrown off a cliff to learn to fly."

Lancer Arturia resolutely added the bird to her 'have a talk with,' list.

"That doesn't sound very reassuring," she frowned.

Sensing her unease, Shirou spoke to focus her attention.

"They won't die. We did a lot of dangerous things, and we turned out fine."

"You mean you?" Lancer Arturia glared at her husband and flicked his forehead. "Danger after danger, I swear!"

"And you were always right behind or insisted on taking the lead until one day...you didn't." Shirou said, rubbing the spot Lancer Arturia flicked him.

Lancer Arturia went silent. She knew this was Shirou's way of prodding again. He could tell that something was eating at her, but also that she didn't want to tell him.

"Worry about the kids," Lancer Arturia shook her head.

"Always do. Right then." Shirou stepped forward and held his hand out to Lancer Arturia, leading her towards the small stable near the house. "Let's go."

Lancer Arturia nodded and placed her hand in Shirou's, the two moving to mount the family horse, Llamrei before taking off in pursuit of their kids.

.

.

.

All the while, Merlin's sudden visit lingered in Lancer Arturia's mind.

Was the country really fairing so poorly without her?

Lancer Arturia's secluded life was changing, and she dreaded being drawn back into the fold of politics, blood, and war. No, she dreaded bringing her family back into it.

She'd given up that dream, so why must it keep trying to pull her back?

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