—In that hazy moment, she thought she heard the distant tolling of a bell, and so she awoke.
Lying in the warmth of her bed, a sudden certainty rushed into her mind:
"Today… calamity will descend."
Every time the bell's toll roused her, it heralded a storm—a tempest that would fall without warning and shred her ordinary life to tatters.
So on this final day, waking in Norwich, she naturally understood what was to come. And with that understanding, she recalled Gawain's dream:
"Guinevere will die in Norwich."
Merely remembering those words sent a chill through her.
When the lines of battle drew up, and Guinevere ordered everyone to retreat while he alone pressed into the heart of the Morass of Souls, Artoria had resolved to stop him. There were a thousand reasons: Don't go… you can't… you'll die… it's pointless… there's no chance of victory…
—I cannot lose you.
How she hated that she, of all people, was the Chosen of Prophecy: powerless, unworthy, never once certain she could save Britain. Each awakening tempted her to run away in secret.
But she was the Prophetic Child, raised by all her village on that promise—and sent forth on that hope. She had to steel herself against her own weakness.
—Or so she once believed.
In her previous life, after suffering countless injustices and cold stares, her conviction had grown faint. She still loathed the Fairy Realm: every creature—human or fae—spurned her. Why should she risk herself to save a kingdom that had shown her nothing but scorn?
They said that giving invited return; yet these fairies expected her to pour out her life in exchange for… what? Their pretense of hope? Their empty praise? She wanted to recoil from them all.
Yet still, she chose to become the Chosen. Whatever prophecies foretold, whatever the world's future, it no longer mattered to her—only one thing did: Gawain. The friend who had shown her genuine kindness, who had treated her like a beacon of light. She could never betray him.
She'd always known her own lack of confidence. Yet Gawain believed in her—believed that this unremarkable faery was the Prophetic Child, believed in every word she spoke. He had lent her his strength, traveled by her side, so she need not endure the world's cruelty alone.
Even when she had failed and died, he had unleashed his fury to avenge her. Why? Because he simply… liked her.
She could not understand it. What merit did she possess that warranted such devotion? Yet when her fae sense probed his heart, she felt something taking root there—perhaps planted long ago, only now blossoming into life.
Her gaze fixed on him, and she knew: she must be the Chosen. Not for the kingdom, not for prophecy… but because she could never bear to disappoint Gawain. She would become his little star, shining light back upon him.
But as the enemy advanced, she hesitated, tempted to urge him to flee: "Let's run—there's no way to win." In that moment's weakness, she lost precious seconds. When at last she summoned courage, Gawain had already plunged alone into the swirling Morass.
Her soul felt torn asunder. No—she could not lose him. If he died, what meaning could her life hold? She would not abandon him.
With a cry, she chased after him into the Morass. Her staff unleashed erratic spells—clumsy blasts, fiery explosions—blinding, choking her through the muck, the poisonous vapors, the Morass creatures lashing out. Her body was bruised and bloodied, yet nothing would stop her from pursuing that silhouette ahead.
Fortune, perhaps, that a human-born faery like herself was immune to the Morass's toxins.
Finally, stumbling free of the swamp, she neared him—and beheld the embodiment of despair itself. She understood in an instant why "Calamity" had haunted faery tales for millennia.
Summoning the last of her strength, she raced to him and grabbed his hand as he stared, startled.
"Don't go—"
"You can't win."
"Let's run away."
"You have no duty to fight that thing."
"Prophecy never said we could defeat it… only that we might banish Calamity. First we must retreat, then we can devise a way."
She squeezed his hand until her fingers ached—yet could not hold him still.
"I know we can't win," he said softly, drawing his hand free and lifting his great sword. "But that's not the point."
He turned to face the monstrous Calamity. "Just a few more moments—I'll buy you time. Go now."
And yet as he charged into the abyss, she could not move. She lacked the courage to fight, but even more, she could not bear to leave him alone. If he fell… then what hope remained for her?
Her grip tightened on her staff—but she did nothing more.
Then the great hand of Calamity descended, and that crushing blow became her final memory.
——The simulation's first memory ended there. When Artoria awoke from that replay, tears streaked her cheeks. Once more, she had failed to save Gawain.
…
[Simulation Start ID: 1003]
[Queen's Calendar 2018, early spring. You have finally settled in Salisbury as a guard. Though the pay is modest, your new life has at last found its footing.]
[At that moment, a faery named Artoria sought you out.]
[She wished to settle in Salisbury—and asked if you would give her shelter.]
"A—?" Gawain tapped a confused question in his mind.