The great hall of Camelot was filled with an air of quiet reverence, yet beneath that silence lay an undercurrent of tension. The gathered knights—her most trusted, the very foundation of her reign—stood at attention, their eyes fixed on their king.
At the head of the room, Artoria Pendragon stood tall, shoulders squared, her expression composed. The flickering torchlight cast long shadows behind her, but the weight in her voice carried further than any light could reach.
"The reason I have gathered you here, my most trusted and esteemed knights, is simple."
Her voice was steady, but there was a rare vulnerability beneath her usual regal authority. "I have something I wish to tell you, and I hope that after you hear it, your loyalty—to me, to Britain—will not waver."
A murmur rippled through the assembled knights. Some exchanged glances, others remained stoic, waiting. Artoria let them process her words before continuing.
And then—the glow began.
At first, it was subtle, a shift in the very air around her. Then, like mist evaporating under the morning sun, the illusion fell away.
"I have deceived your eyes," she admitted, her tone neither defensive nor pleading—just resolute.
Her knights watched, wide-eyed, as the spell unraveled. The carefully woven deception, cast by Merlin all those years ago, shattered like glass.
The radiant figure that stood before them was no different in stature or presence, but her features—her true features—were now bared to them.
Not a king forged of steel and legend.
But a woman.
"As the King of Britain, I apologize," she said, bowing her head ever so slightly—not as a sign of weakness, but as a gesture of respect.
"For years, you have followed me into battle. You have placed your trust in me. You have bled, fought, and sacrificed for Britain under my rule. It was never my intention to betray that trust, but I could not let my truth jeopardize the future of our kingdom."
Silence.
The knights stared, not in doubt of her words, but in shock.
For many, the very foundation of their belief had been upended. Their king—their beacon of hope, their ideal of chivalry—had been a woman all along.
Gawain was the first to react. His fist clenched at his side, his face unreadable. "My king... you have fought for us, bled for us, ruled for us. Are we to doubt you now, when all you have done is lead us to victory?"
A few knights exhaled, as if suddenly remembering to breathe.
Bedivere, ever the loyal knight, took a knee, bowing his head. "You are my king, regardless of the form you bear. My sword is yours, as it always has been."
Tristan exhaled, shaking his head with something that almost resembled a laugh under his breath. "And here I thought you gathered us for something truly dire, my king." His smile was faint, but genuine.
One by one, the knights found their voices, each swearing their continued loyalty. Some were slower to process than others, but not a single sword was drawn against her.
Artoria's gaze swept over them, something softening in her expression.
She had been prepared for rejection.
Instead, she was met with unwavering devotion.
"...Then I ask you once more," she said, her voice quieter now, but no less powerful. "Will you follow me?"
The hall rang with the sound of steel—knights kneeling, blades pressed to the ground in solemn vow.
Artoria let out a breath she hadn't realized she was holding.
The truth had been revealed.
And still, her knights stood by her side.
The moment of truth had passed, yet its weight still lingered in the air.
And then—she smiled.
It was slight, fleeting, but undeniable.
For a moment, the knights around her stilled, as if the very foundation of their reality had shifted once more. Artoria Pendragon—their king—did not smile. She ruled with measured authority, carried the burden of Britain with unwavering resolve, and bore the weight of countless battles upon her shoulders.
Yet, here and now, in the wake of revealing her second greatest secret, she smiled.
And it mesmerized them.
For the briefest of moments, she was not just the King of Knights—she was human.
Artoria took note of their stunned silence, but did not linger on it. Step one had been completed.
With her usual composure returning, she addressed them once more.
"You may return to your stations. I apologize for the interruption," she said, voice steady, yet softer than before.
A murmur of acknowledgment spread through the gathered knights. Many nodded, accepting their king's words without hesitation, though some still processed the weight of the revelation. One by one, they left, their armor clinking softly as they exited the hall.
Yet, four remained.
Gawain. Lancelot. Tristan. Kay.
As the doors shut, a low chuckle broke the silence.
"So, it turns out our ever-nosy Sir Kay knew the truth before all of us," Tristan mused, his tone carrying its usual dry amusement. "How fortunate we are to have such an informed guide."
Kay growled, turning sharply to the somber knight. "Shut up, you miserable pessimist."
"Ah, angered, are we?" Tristan replied, his smirk just barely visible.
Gawain and Lancelot exchanged exhausted glances. They had long grown used to Kay and Tristan's bickering, yet this time, neither could deny that Tristan had a point.
Lancelot was the first to address it.
"So..." he began, arms crossed. His gaze flickered to Artoria, his expression unreadable. "You and Sir Arthur are... in a relationship?"
There was a slight pause before Artoria nodded, unflinching. "Yes."
Silence.
Then—
"I knew it. That journey you guys had has to have been the cause."
All eyes turned to Kay, who folded his arms with a dramatic scowl. "I knew I shouldn't have let Mister Perfect near her. Sir Gawain, why didn't you warn me when they were sneaking off together?"
Gawain, uncharacteristically quiet, merely glanced away.
Lancelot sighed, rubbing his temples. "Kay, is this truly the most pressing concern after what we just witnessed?"
Artoria exhaled, shaking her head. "Who would be better than someone who is perfect, Kay?" she asked, arching a brow.
Kay scowled, looking away.
"I am quite sure," Tristan interjected, his tone light but amused, "that he is simply frustrated that he cannot defeat Sir Arthur in combat."
Kay let out a noise of pure irritation.
Artoria, despite herself, let out a soft chuckle.
"I suppose," she said at last, a small, knowing smile touching her lips, "I should give you some more bad news, Kay."
There was something in her tone—teasing, yet cautious—that made Kay's instincts scream at him. He saw the way her hand drifted, almost unconsciously, over her stomach.
And then it hit him.
Kay staggered back, gasping as if he had been struck by Excalibur itself.
"Don't—" He took a step forward, then dropped to his knees as if his legs had betrayed him. "Don't tell me..." His voice trembled, caught between horror and despair. "My pure, innocent, little sister—who just so happens to have the blood of hundreds of men on her hands—is..."
He looked up at her, wide-eyed, as if willing her to deny it.
Artoria's expression remained calm.
"Yes," she said, voice steady, yet soft. "I am pregnant."
A beat.
"With Arthur's child."
Silence.
For once, even Tristan had nothing to say.
Lancelot was the first to recover, exhaling before a smile—genuine and warm—graced his features.
"Congratulations," he said simply, inclining his head.
Gawain, though still visibly processing, nodded firmly in agreement. "Let Vivian's kindness bless the child," he intoned, voice steady with conviction. The Knight of the Sun himself had spoken his approval.
Kay, meanwhile, remained frozen.
His mouth opened and closed several times, as if he were trying to form words, but nothing coherent came out. His hand pressed against his forehead as if to ward off a headache, his expression shifting between disbelief, betrayal, and utter, unfiltered despair.
Tristan, ever the detached observer, finally broke the silence.
"Well," he mused, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. "I must admit, Sir Kay, this may be the first time I have seen you speechless."
Kay whirled on him.
"Speechless?! Speechless?! I am in the middle of a personal, emotional, and psychological crisis, and that is all you have to say?!"
Tristan's lips curled ever so slightly. "That, and... I do find it amusing that you consider her innocent, despite knowing full well she could slaughter an entire battlefield with ease."
Kay groaned, burying his face in his hands. "This is exactly why I didn't want her alone with Arthur! I knew something like this would happen!"
And then—a familiar voice broke through the tension.
"It's alright, Kay," Merlin said smoothly, his tone carrying that infuriating mix of amusement and wisdom that made it impossible to tell whether he was being sincere or simply entertained by the situation.
Kay's head snapped up so fast it was a wonder he didn't injure himself.
"Oh, wonderful. Just what I needed—you." His voice was dry, his exhaustion evident. He rubbed his temples, as if hoping to massage the stress away. "Please, do enlighten me, O great Merlin, why exactly it is 'alright.' Because from where I'm standing, I have just learned that my little sister, who also happens to be the King of Britain, is carrying that bastard's child."
A soft sigh left Artoria's lips at Kay's phrasing, but she chose not to correct him.
Merlin, for his part, only smiled, completely unfazed.
"Be glad, Kay." He stepped forward, placing a hand on the knight's shoulder in what was supposed to be a reassuring gesture. "You'll be an uncle."
Kay stared.
He opened his mouth—paused—then promptly jerked his shoulder away from Merlin's touch, looking as if he had just been personally insulted by the concept.
"I—Uncle?!" Kay sputtered, his brain clearly struggling to catch up. "That's supposed to make this better?!" He gestured wildly toward Artoria, his composure slipping. "She's pregnant, Merlin! With his child! Do you even comprehend the magnitude of what that means?!"
Merlin hummed thoughtfully. "Yes, quite a significant development indeed." His lips curled in amusement. "And yet, I do believe you're forgetting one crucial detail."
Kay scowled. "Oh? And what's that?"
Merlin leaned in slightly, grinning like the cat that got the cream.
"This means there will be a heir to the throne."
The room went silent.
Even Artoria, who had expected Merlin to say something, found herself momentarily taken aback by how casually he had just announced what was, perhaps, the most politically earth-shattering consequence of this revelation.
Lancelot and Gawain exchanged unreadable glances. Tristan, ever observant, folded his arms and leaned back slightly, his expression pensive.
Kay, however—Kay looked like he was about to pass out.
"Oh," he exhaled weakly. "Oh, no."
"Yes," Merlin corrected with a twinkle in his eye, "Oh, yes."
Kay slumped forward, hands dragging down his face in an exaggerated display of suffering. "I take it back. I'm not in a crisis—I'm in hell."
Tristan finally chuckled, the sound dry yet genuine. "Congratulations. I hear they have good company in hell."
Kay groaned. "I knew this was a mistake. I knew something like this would happen." He shot Artoria a pointed look, though it lacked any real bite. "You could have at least warned me, you know."
Artoria regarded him evenly. "Would it have made a difference?"
Kay opened his mouth—paused—then promptly scowled and looked away.
"Exactly," she said with a small, knowing smile.
Kay muttered something unintelligible under his breath before sighing heavily. "Fine. Fine. But if this child inherits Arthur's ridiculous swordsmanship, I am retiring."
"Noted," Artoria said, her expression betraying the faintest trace of amusement.
Gawain, finally speaking up again, placed a hand over his heart. "No matter what comes, I will stand by you, my king." His voice was steady, his conviction unwavering. "And I will swear my loyalty to the heir as I have to you."
Lancelot nodded in agreement, offering a small, yet genuine smile. "We all will."
Kay exhaled deeply, rubbing the back of his neck. "Yeah, yeah. You know I'm not going anywhere."
Artoria's gaze softened, the warmth in her eyes subtle yet undeniable. She had never doubted their loyalty—but to hear it in this moment, with such certainty, meant more than she could put into words.
Merlin, ever the observer, merely grinned to himself.
—--
Arthur stood tall, his armor marred by battle, his grip firm on Excalibur Reid. He listened as Ulquiorra delivered the casualty report, his tone calm, detached—almost clinical.
"We lost about ten men," Ulquiorra stated, his emerald eyes unreadable.
Arthur's jaw tensed slightly. Ten. Too many. Even one was too many.
"I see." He nodded once, steadfast despite the weight settling in his chest. "Thank you for informing me."
Ulquiorra gave a small, almost imperceptible nod before stepping back.
"They fought well," Tier spoke up, her voice quiet but firm, the weight of experience behind every word. "We didn't lose many, but their sacrifices will not be in vain."
Arthur met her gaze and nodded, his expression grim yet resolute.
"And that is why we will build from their sacrifice," he said, voice unwavering.
Morgan, standing beside him, studied his face carefully before nodding in approval. "I think that's a great way to put it," she said, a rare moment of agreement between them.
Arthur exhaled, steadying himself. Then, he took a step forward—toward his forces, toward his people. They stood gathered, knights and soldiers alike, their faces weary but determined. Some cradled the wounded, others knelt beside the fallen, whispering final prayers.
He had fought alongside them. He had bled alongside them. And now, he would lead them forward.
Arthur raised his voice—not as a king commanding his army, but as a man standing among his comrades.
"We have lost good men today," he began, his tone solemn, carrying over the field. "Men who fought, not for glory, not for riches, but for something greater than themselves."
A hush fell over the gathered people.
"They fought for Dumnonia. For its people. For its future." Arthur's gaze swept over them, meeting their eyes, one by one. "Their sacrifice was not in vain—because as long as we stand, as long as we remember, they are not truly gone."
A murmur rippled through the crowd, some nodding, others tightening their grips on their weapons.
"But our battle is not yet over." His voice hardened, steeled with purpose. "Dumnonia still suffers. Its people still cry out for salvation. And we will not turn our backs on them."
The fire in his words burned through the exhaustion in their eyes. Hope. Resolve. A reason to press forward.
"We finish what we started," Arthur declared. "Not for ourselves, but for the people who can't fight. For the ones who need us." He took a breath. "For the ones who gave everything so that we could still stand here today."
Silence followed. Then, one by one, the knights and soldiers straightened, gripping their swords, their spears, their banners.
"For Dumnonia!" someone called.
A second voice echoed the cry.
Then another.
And another.
Soon, the entire battlefield rang with the voices of those who refused to yield. A promise to the fallen. A vow to the living.
Arthur turned his gaze skyward for the briefest moment, as if offering a silent prayer to the ones who had been lost.
Then, he turned back to his army, his people.
"Rest now," he said, his voice softer but still firm. "Tend to the wounded. Mourn the dead. Tomorrow, we march forward."
—
Arthur slipped into the encampment under the veil of night, moving through the flickering torchlight like a shadow. The guards stationed at the perimeter were his own men, handpicked for their loyalty, yet he had avoided them effortlessly. It was a force of habit.
The more his legend grew among the people, the harder it became to operate in the field unnoticed. The Phantom Drake. That was the name Gwynn's men had given him—whispered in fear each time he struck under the cover of darkness.
At first, it had been a tool, a means to spread fear among the enemy and embolden the people of Dumnonia. But now, it was a hindrance. Gwynn and King Mark—once bitter enemies locked in an endless struggle for territory—had set aside their feud to turn their forces against the outsider leading Dumnonia's rebellion. Him.
Arthur exhaled sharply, frustration gnawing at the edge of his mind. They feared him enough to unite against him.
Good.
But it also meant the window for his night raids was closing.
He pushed aside the entrance flap to his tent, stepping into the dim glow of candlelight. The weight of the night's events settled on him as he removed his cloak, the heavy fabric still damp with dew and the scent of battle.
"I see you've returned," a voice mused from within the tent, smooth and amused.
Arthur's muscles tensed before he recognized the presence.
Faye.
She had materialized out of nowhere, her form shifting as if she had been part of the light itself—or perhaps, more accurately, the clouds that veiled it.
Arthur didn't flinch, but he did give her a measured look before continuing to remove his gloves.
"I didn't know the boogeyman that Gwynn fears was actually our leader the whole time," she added, crossing her arms as she studied him. Her tone was light, teasing, but there was an edge of something else beneath it.
"And I didn't know you had taken up waiting in my tent like a specter." Arthur responded, his voice level.
Faye smirked. "I'm not the specter here, Phantom Drake."
Arthur sighed, running a hand through his hair before sitting down on a wooden stool. "That name has become more trouble than it's worth," he admitted.
Faye tilted her head. "Trouble? Or proof that you've shaken them to their core?"
Arthur looked at her then, really looked at her. There was no mockery in her gaze now, only sharp intelligence and something else—something unspoken.
"They've put aside their own war just to stop you, Arthur," she said, quieter this time. "That isn't something to dismiss."
Arthur's expression remained unreadable. "It means the fight ahead will be harder."
Faye took a slow step forward, her eyes locked onto his. "Did you think it was ever going to be easy?"
Arthur exhaled through his nose, shaking his head slightly. No. He never had.
Silence settled between them, thick with unspoken understanding.
"...And yet you still go out alone," Faye added, her voice quieter now, but there was something else in it. Frustration? Concern?
Arthur glanced at her, raising an eyebrow. "I'm hardly alone."
Faye's lips pressed into a thin line. "You know what I mean."
Arthur didn't respond immediately. Instead, he looked down at his gauntlets, flexing his fingers before slowly removing them. His hands, scarred but steady, rested on his knees as he leaned forward slightly.
"...It's easier that way," he finally admitted. "Less risk to my men."
Faye's gaze softened, but only slightly. "And more risk to you."
Arthur didn't respond.
"Arthur," she said, stepping closer, her voice steady, firm. "You're not just a knight leading a rebellion anymore. You're a king in the making."
Arthur looked up at her then, his expression unreadable but his eyes betraying something deeper.
"And kings don't fight alone."
He held her gaze for a long moment. The candlelight flickered between them, casting shadows that danced across the tent's fabric.
Finally, Arthur exhaled, a ghost of a smile touching his lips. "So I've been told."
Faye studied him for a moment longer before shaking her head with a small, knowing smirk. "One day, you'll actually listen when people say things like that."
Arthur's smirk mirrored hers for a fleeting second before he pushed himself to his feet.
"Perhaps," he said, voice lighter now. Then, as he grabbed a nearby map, his expression shifted back to focus. "But tonight, there are more pressing matters."
Faye sighed, but there was no real exasperation in it. "Of course there are."
Faye's smile faded, shifting into something more calculated—a smirk that carried the weight of unspoken intentions. She moved forward, her steps slow and deliberate, like a predator closing in on its prey.
Arthur's green eyes flickered with momentary confusion, barely perceptible before he schooled his expression into one of calm indifference. A knight, a king, could not afford hesitation.
Yet, Faye ignored his guarded stance. Without warning, she reached out, gripping his chin between her fingers—firm, but not painful.
"Why are you helping these people?" she asked, her voice soft, but laced with something sharper beneath.
Arthur's brows furrowed slightly. "What?"
"Don't lie to me," Faye continued, her piercing blue gaze locking onto his. "I know it's not out of the kindness in your heart. Don't conflate yourself with Vivian." Her lips curled into something between amusement and challenge. "We both know that kindness isn't what you are."
Arthur's jaw tensed in her grasp.
"For a time, I believed you were a man who devoted himself to honor and duty," Faye mused, tilting her head slightly. "But now? I wonder if that honor is false."
Arthur's expression remained unreadable, but something shifted in his eyes.
"You strike in the dead of night," Faye continued, her voice carrying a knowing lilt. "Against men who barely have time to lift their weapons. What honor is there in that, Arthur?"
A dangerous silence filled the space between them.
Then, without a word, Arthur's hand shot up, gripping her wrist.
He pulled her hand away, but didn't release her. Instead, he held it firm, his stature looming over her, his green eyes dark with something indiscernible.
"And why," he asked, voice low and controlled, "would I tell you, Faye?"
Then, his grip tightened ever so slightly, and his next words cut through the air like a blade.
"Or should I say—Morgan le Fay?"
For the first time, Faye—no, Morgan—showed a flicker of surprise.
It was brief, barely noticeable, but Arthur caught it.
"So, you knew." Morgan's smirk returned, but there was a shift in her demeanor. The mask of Faye had slipped, if only slightly.
Arthur nodded once, unwavering. "I can tell the difference between a fairy and a human—especially one of your caliber."
Morgan let out a soft chuckle, tilting her head as she studied him with something between curiosity and amusement. "And yet you said nothing."
Arthur released her wrist, stepping back slightly.
"You didn't do anything wrong," he said simply. "So I saw no need to mention it."
Morgan's smile did not falter. But her blue eyes were locked onto his, searching.
"Tell me, Arthur," she said, her voice quiet, yet demanding.
"Why are you helping these people?"
A beat of silence.
Arthur's gaze did not waver.
And then, he answered.
"...Because someone has to."
Morgan's expression flickered—just for a second.
And Arthur saw it.
Morgan laughed softly, the sound carrying a knowing lilt.
"How noble," she murmured, tilting her head, amusement flickering in her blue eyes. "So you bear the weight of a kingdom upon your back—not out of duty, nor honor—but simply because there is no one else to do it?"
Her tone was rhetorical, laced with something sharp.
She stepped closer, her presence unshakable, inescapable. "You must think me a fool," she stated, voice softer now, yet filled with quiet certainty. "We both know that is not true."
Arthur remained still, his expression unreadable, though his eyes betrayed a flicker of something unspoken.
Morgan pressed forward, her voice lowering to something near a whisper. "I know you, Arthur. The ones who do not feel the weight of the world do not understand you—not truly. They don't see what I see."
Her gaze bore into his, unyielding, piercing.
"You, who have been favored by the world itself," she continued, her words slow and deliberate. "Loved by the world, and thus, loved by those of the Reverse Side. And because we love you... we know you."
She lifted a hand, placing it against his chest.
Arthur felt the warmth of her palm through the fabric of his tunic, but he did not move away.
"Will you lie to me again, Arthur?" Morgan's voice was barely above a whisper now, her fingers pressing slightly against him. "Or will you speak the truth?"
Arthur's jaw tightened. He knew she was not lying.
He had grown up with fairies. He had seen how they looked at him, how they felt—an adoration that wasn't entirely their own, but something woven into the very nature of the world. He had never rejected their care, but he had never reciprocated it either.
Because he knew the truth.
It wasn't them. It was the world itself that loved him.
And yet now—now he could not reject it.
A heavy silence stretched between them.
Then, finally—he exhaled, his shoulders lowering slightly, the tension giving way to something more raw.
"...Fine." His voice was quiet, steady. Honest.
"The one I love requires this," he admitted. "So I must do it."
Morgan's eyes widened, but she did not interrupt.
"For those I care for," Arthur continued, his voice firm now, resolute. "I will forsake everything for them if it is necessary."
Morgan's fingers curled slightly against his chest.
And this time—it was she who was left speechless.
Morgan's fingers trembled ever so slightly against his chest. A small movement—barely noticeable—but Arthur saw it.
She parted her lips, but no words came, only a sharp breath.
And then—her expression twisted. Not in anger, not in sorrow, but something far more dangerous.
"...Her."
It wasn't a question. It was a revelation.
Arthur remained silent. He would not deny it.
Morgan's smile returned, but it was sharp, almost bitter. Her fingers, still against his chest, curled slightly—like claws prepared to sink into flesh.
"So it is for her," she murmured. "Of course it is."
Arthur's green eyes did not waver, but the weight of her words pressed against him like a vice.
"You will forsake everything?" she echoed, her voice low, trembling with something unspoken, barely contained.
"For her?"
He nodded once, slow and deliberate.
A spark of something ignited in Morgan's gaze—rage, longing, understanding, jealousy. A war within herself, emotions colliding like a storm barely held at bay.
And then—it broke.
Morgan shoved him. Hard.
Arthur staggered back a step, but he did not react, did not retaliate. He merely watched as she clenched her fists, her entire body trembling.
"You truly are a fool," she whispered.
A step forward.
"You would throw away everything—yourself, your kingdom, even the world's favor—for her?"
Another step.
The air between them crackled.
Arthur did not look away. "Yes."
Morgan laughed. A sharp, breathless thing.
Then, without warning—she grabbed his collar and pulled him down.
Their faces were close now, far too close. Her breath was warm against his skin, her blue eyes ablaze with emotions she refused to name.
"You are the world's beloved," she whispered, the words almost venomous. "Do you think you can belong to one person alone?"
Arthur did not flinch. "I do not belong to the world."
Morgan's grip tightened. "Then who do you belong to?"
"Artoria" Arthur stated his tone of someone in love.
Morgan staggered back, one hand clutching her temple as if trying to keep something from breaking open. Her breath came in uneven gasps, her pupils dilating like a woman lost between waking and dreaming.
But never like this.
Not unraveling.
Not breaking.
The shift in her voice had not been illusion or trickery—it had been real.
Arthur felt it as much as he heard it, a fracture in the fabric of what she was, what she had always been. The name had left his lips before he even realized, a whisper of recognition that made the storm within her rage.
"Vivian?"
Morgan—no, all of them—staggered back, her breath ragged, her fingers pressing against her temples as though she could hold herself together by force of will alone.
"NO! Not now—"
The denial was sharp, desperate, as though it was not Arthur she was refusing, but something far deeper, something inside herself.
Arthur took a step forward, instinct overriding reason. "What's happening?"
Morgan clenched her teeth. The air around them trembled, not with magic, but with something even Arthur—who had once held the weight of Excalibur's burden—could barely comprehend.
And then, her form flickered.
For an instant, she was not Morgan.
Arthur had not seen that face in years, yet he knew it as intimately as he knew his own reflection. The woman who had been his guardian, his mentor, his silent protector.
Vivian.
She had always been the calm one. The gentle one. The guiding hands in the dark. The one who whispered words of wisdom when his path was uncertain, who had given him the blade that would define his fate.
But now—her voice cracked.
"You were never meant to be hers alone."
It was not a command. Not manipulation. Not anger.
It was pleading. A desperate, broken truth laid bare.
Arthur inhaled sharply. He had known. In the depths of his soul, he had always known. But she had never spoken it, and so neither had he.
And then she was Morgan again.
If Vivian had been sorrow, Morgan was fury.
"She takes everything," she whispered, but it was not truly to him—it was to herself, as if repeating a truth carved deep into her very existence.
Her hands pressed against his chest, not in aggression, but in an attempt to anchor herself. Her fingers curled into fists, but she did not strike him. She trembled.
"She had Britain. She had the knights. She had their love."
Her nails dug into his tunic, but there was no true malice behind them. Only loss.
"And now she has you."
The words shattered something in the air between them.
Arthur felt it, the weight of emotions long buried, long denied. The grief, the longing, the helpless rage of something inevitable. Fate.
Then, her voice broke completely.
"She even has the child I could never have."
Arthur stilled.
Morgan's breath hitched, as if realizing—too late—that she had spoken it aloud. But the dam had already broken.
For a moment, she was not the sorceress. Not the rival. Not the embodiment of Britain's lingering resentment.
She was simply Morgan.
His sister.
The one who had been denied everything—by blood, by fate, by the very foundation of their existence.
Arthur did not move, did not speak. He listened.
Morgan let out a hollow, broken laugh. "Do you know what it is like?" she murmured. "To have the world itself deny you?"
She had always been poised. Always composed. Always in control.
But now—she had lost.
Not just to Artoria. Not just to Arthur.
To destiny.
And the one thing she had always denied, always tried to bury beneath her bitterness, beneath her power, beneath the cold, unshakable front—rose like a tidal wave.
She had wanted him.
She had always wanted him.
But he had been given to another. And it had never been her.
Morgan trembled, her body betraying the emotions she had spent a lifetime suppressing.
Arthur, for the first time, moved first.
He pulled her forward, arms wrapping around her. Not as a knight. Not as a king. Not even as the brother she had scorned.
Simply as Arthur.
And for the first time—Morgan did not push him away.
She clung to him. Desperately.
And he held her.
Not as a duty. Not as an obligation. But because in this moment, for all their history, for all their battles, for all their tragedy—she needed him.
Her voice was barely above a whisper, fractured, but spoken as one.
"Please, Arthur... let us show you our love."
Arthur closed his eyes, exhaling slowly.
Morgan.
Vivian.
Two souls bound by something neither of them could ever escape.
Arthur felt the weight of it all pressing down on him—the sorrow in Morgan's voice, the quiet devastation in Vivian's, the longing in both. It was an unbearable storm, one that had brewed for years, hidden beneath layers of resentment, duty, and denied emotions.
And for the first time in his life, he felt guilt.
Not for rejecting them. Not for loving Artoria. But for the pain he had never acknowledged, for the wounds he had never noticed—or perhaps had chosen not to notice.
The moment stretched between them, fragile as glass.
Morgan—Vivian—both and neither—looked at him, their expression shifting between anger, yearning, and something far more vulnerable. They had been waiting for something, a crack in his armor, an answer that never came. And when they saw the hesitation in his eyes, the way his lips parted but no words escaped, they took their chance.
Morgan moved first. Or was it Vivian? In that moment, they were the same—desperate, longing, grasping at the one thing they had always been denied.
Her lips pressed against his.
Arthur froze. He did not move, did not reciprocate, but neither did he push her away.
His mind screamed at him, demanded he act, that he put a stop to this before it spiraled further. And yet, his body felt strangely disconnected, trapped between the past and the present. Between the child who had been nurtured by Vivian's hands, the knight who had fought against Morgan's wrath, and the man who had already given himself to another.
But Morgan—Vivian—was shaking.
He could feel it even in the way she kissed him. This was not the triumphant claim of a sorceress who had ensnared him, nor the cruel game of a fairy who played with the hearts of men. It was the trembling desperation of someone who had already lost but could not bear to accept it.
She pulled back only slightly, just enough to search his expression, to see if he would reach for her, if he would say something—anything.
Arthur swallowed hard.
"Morgan..." His voice was barely a whisper.
And that was when she broke.
"Why?" Her voice cracked, all her personas bleeding together into a singular, raw wound. "Why could it never be me?"
Her hands gripped his tunic, weakly pulling him forward, as though trying to close the distance not just between their bodies, but between all the years of silence, all the moments where she had been forced to watch from the shadows.
"I loved you first," she whispered. "I knew you first. I raised you. I guided you. And yet—" her breath hitched, her forehead resting against his chest now, unable to meet his gaze, "—she has you."
Arthur closed his eyes. The weight of her words crushed against his ribs, threatening to suffocate him.
He had nothing to say that could fix this.
Because the truth was cruel.
It was not a matter of worth, of devotion, of fate. It was simply the undeniable reality that his heart had always belonged to Artoria.
And Morgan—Vivian—had always known that.
Still, she had hoped. And now, that hope was shattering in his arms.
Arthur did the only thing he could.
Arthur barely had time to process what had happened before he felt a forceful shove against his chest.
He staggered back, caught off guard, his balance slipping before his back met something soft—the rough fabric of his bedroll. He barely had time to inhale before warmth followed, pressing down on him.
Morgan was on top of him.
His breath hitched as she straddled his waist, her weight pinning him in place. He could see the wild intensity in her blue eyes, something dark and unrelenting burning in them. And yet, beneath that sharp defiance, there was something else—a fragile, desperate yearning, masked behind her usual arrogance.
"Let me show you I am better than her."
Her voice was steady, but Arthur could hear the slight tremor in it. A challenge, a plea, a demand all in one.
He opened his mouth, perhaps to argue, perhaps to call her name—he wasn't sure. But before he could speak, she leaned down, close enough that their breaths mingled. He could feel her warmth, the way her fingers clutched the fabric of his tunic as if holding onto something slipping through her grasp.
"Let me show you my love in full," Vivian whispered, her voice softer than Morgan's but no less intense.
Then, she kissed him.
Arthur stiffened, a sharp inhale betraying the turmoil raging within him. Her lips moved against his—this time with more certainty, more insistence. Not the trembling, hesitant kiss from before, but one that sought to claim, to make him feel, to make him understand.
He did not push her away.
But neither did he pull her closer.
His hands hovered near her arms, uncertain, caught between the duty he had always followed and the storm of emotions swirling inside him.
This was Morgan. This was Vivian. The woman who had shaped him in childhood, the woman who had stood against him in adulthood, the woman who had always loomed over his life like an unspoken shadow.
And yet—
She was not the one he had given his heart to.
"Morgan," he breathed against her lips, not as a rejection, not as an acceptance, but as something in between.
She hesitated for the briefest moment, and Arthur, who had always been so attuned to the weight of emotions left unsaid, felt it.
Felt the hesitation. Felt the fear.
Because she already knew his answer.
But knowing it had never stopped her before.
Her fingers curled into his tunic, a shuddering breath escaping her lips as she pulled back just enough to meet his gaze.
"I have spent my entire life watching you slip away," she whispered. "No matter how much I fought, no matter how much I reached for you, it was never enough."
Her voice cracked, raw with something Arthur had rarely heard from her—true vulnerability.
"I could take you now," she continued, more to herself than to him. "I could make you mine, just for tonight." Her eyes flickered, searching his face for something—anything. "Would you stop me?"
Arthur swallowed, his throat tight, his heart pounding against his ribs like a caged thing.
"I don't know," he admitted, his voice quieter than he intended, almost lost in the night air. His gaze faltered, shifting from Morgan's piercing blue eyes to the side, as if looking away would lessen the weight of the moment.
But it didn't.
It never would.
"Then let me."
Vivian's voice was a whisper, gentle yet firm, laced with something he couldn't quite name.
Her fingers reached out, cool against his skin, and slowly, deliberately, she interlocked them with his. Arthur barely realized he had let it happen.
His hands were rough, calloused from years of wielding a sword, from bearing the weight of a kingdom. Hers were smooth, delicate, yet strong in the way only she could be.
Then, she moved closer, her breath warm against his skin, the space between them narrowing until there was none at all.
A soft press of lips against his neck. Barely a touch.
Arthur inhaled sharply, a fleeting shiver running through him at the unfamiliar sensation.
Then, another.
Softer. Lingering.
"Let me take you," Morgan murmured, and before he could process the words, the soft kiss turned into something sharper.
A bite.
Not deep enough to cause true pain, but enough to leave a mark. A claim. A warning.
Arthur tensed, his fingers twitching around hers. His breath came uneven now, not out of fear but out of something far more complicated, something he didn't know how to name.
Morgan pulled back just enough to look at him, her eyes searching his face for something—hesitation, resistance, surrender.
Anything.
Nothing.
(A/N: This was meant to be an emotionally intense moment, but I'm unsure if I conveyed it as intended. Since I feel the need to explain it, I worry that it might not have come across effectively. My goal was to highlight how Morgan is more infatuated with the idea of Arthur rather than Arthur himself, whereas Vivian genuinely loves him—perhaps even more than Artoria. If I failed to portray this properly, I sincerely apologize. That aside, I hope you enjoyed the chapter!)