#castoria

05 - Distant Memories

On her throne, the pride of all she has achieved in her life, sits Morgan. One leg over the other, back straightened in her lonesome. This is the place where the High Queen of Fairy Britain belongs, the epitome of her prowess — the fruit of millennia of labor.

And yet, even with this impossibly overwhelming source of power at her disposal, new shifts in Fairy Britain’s timeline have appeared without her notice.

The difference is minor. It means nothing in the grand scheme of things, which leaves no reason for concern whatsoever. However, interception of such kind isn’t something Morgan could overlook; not when it happened without her involvement or permission.

Except — there cannot be another being in all of Fairy Britain’s history capable of feats that would defy and change fate. None other than Morgan — Morgan, and Tonelico.

Hours before the unconscious Artoria had been presented to her by Barghest, Morgan had felt a change in the atmosphere. Something had been off — something was wrong, not how it’s meant to be.

Morgan knows better than anyone what this means. She herself has led Fairy Britain to this point in history, in a timeline that originally did not exist and was created by her own unrelenting struggles.

But no other timeline should exist. Especially not a multitude of timelines, running parallel to each other — innumerable repetitions of events that should occur no more than once, if that.

A time loop must be in place, this is the only conclusion to be made. The only explanation for this change.

For what reason did Tonelico set such an ordeal in motion — what right did Tonelico have to manipulate an era that isn’t hers?

Once Morgan has had a glimpse at Artoria’s sleeping face, one of these questions had found its answer immediately. This successor of hers — of Tonelico — is at the core of the savior’s endeavors.

Powerless as the young Fairy of Paradise — the Child of Prophecy — may be yet without her pilgrimage, traces of cycles that lie behind her cling to the raw core of her self. Footprints of paths walked attach themselves to one’s soul, a reset of time cannot change this.

Even when the person themselves cannot recall any of those memories.

What is it, what does Artoria Caster possess that made Tonelico go to such lengths for the sake of this fairy? It’s incomprehensible to Morgan.

Risking the ideal nation without strife, threatening the existence of Fairy Britain itself for nothing but a foolish successor — Morgan cannot entertain the mere thought of such absurdity. Tonelico would not be so unwise herself.

Morgan had hoped that she could find the reason in Artoria herself, by learning more about this cause of irregularity in Fairy Britain’s stabilized timeline. She wants to see what about Artoria Caster is worth taking a gamble that cannot be won.

There is no method to communicate with Tonelico. Messages cannot be exchanged, not even between two prodigies capable of crossing the barrier of eras, time, and space. Morgan cannot ask her former self, she can only hope to make sense of her motives.

After all — it depends on Morgan alone whether Artoria will reach the age of Tonelico once more, or if this foolishness ends here.

“It does not need to concern me,” Morgan says to herself. “What she does in her time is inconsequential to me.”

And yet, Morgan will take her time assessing this Child of Prophecy before coming to a decision.

--------------------------------------------------

The window allows the natural light that’s as dull as the bleak gray sky into the room, which’s suffocating grandness swallows it whole. It doesn’t provide the warmth normally associated with rays of sunlight.

And yet, Artoria doesn’t feel cold. This isn’t the barn in which gusts of wind and the freezing cold spreading through the ground aren’t kept away — it’s safe, protected.

The Winter Queen’s control extends this far.

Artoria rolls onto her side; she has no intention of leaving this bed today. The breakfast that’s been served earlier remains on a tray untouched. There’s no space for food in Artoria’s stomach, which feels filled with heavy rocks that weigh on her from the inside.

Her eyes are unfocused, meeting the wall without any shine. The warm emerald has wilted into a sad remnant of the lush hope — fake as it has been — originally found in it.

There is no reason, no deeper meaning to Artoria being stuck in Camelot. Caught by Barghest, dancing on Morgan’s palm. Nobody meant for this to happen, and no one made any move with such intention.

Nothing but shit luck has brought Artoria into this situation. Not even fate or destiny really care about the village girl who’s been a failed savior before she’s even started on her pilgrimage. The second coming of the original savior — Tonelico — is nothing but a disappointment.

Artoria reconsiders Morgan’s question — debating on whether returning to Tintagel wouldn’t be the better idea. If they didn’t sell Artoria out, nothing changed from the previous twenty years.

Upon return, Artoria would be welcomed with scolding and punishment for disappearing all of a sudden. For all the work left undone while she’s been away for a week.

Of course, Artoria would laugh it off awkwardly and apologize with an excuse nobody would care to question or doubt. She’d tell them she got lost in the nearby forest or any other proof of sheer stupid incompetence that would confirm the uselessness of the Child of Prophecy.

The pain would become her everyday companion once more, but this suffocating pressure would be gone. No more ruminations to deal with.

And she could visit Ector once more, too. Maybe on her way back to Tintagel, Artoria could take a detour and see Knocknarea. It’s not as though anyone is waiting for her return, so it wouldn’t matter if she takes her time.

Her return as a whole doesn’t matter. Artoria understands this.

“… I still don’t want to… go back,” Artoria mutters.

There is no path forward she can muster the strength to take a step towards. The mere idea of stepping back paralyzes her before she could move her foot. And even with her feet firmly planted on her current position, a spreading discomfort makes the decision to stay impossible to make.

Left and right don’t exist, neither does any other direction.

Stuck with no way out — while all options, including the lack of options, are equally unbearable.

Although it’s not something Artoria can bring herself to express in words, not even in her own mind, sheltered from judgement and consequences, her heart is crying out for someone to take this burden from her.

Anyone — anyone who cares, whose embrace could provide genuine solace and a place to rest safely.

Artoria knows such a person does not exist — she knows, while her soul unquestionably believes in their existence regardless. A foolish hope of the stubborn village girl who can’t bring herself to give up for good.

The sound of the door opening hardly registers to Artoria’s ears. If Barghest wants to waste her time bringing in another meal that Artoria doesn’t even care to look at, so be it.

Soft clicking of heels would indicate another visitor, if Artoria cared to listen.

“Let us resume our conversation,” Morgan states.

‘Ah, Morgan…’

Artoria won’t turn to look at Morgan— no, instead, Artoria pushes herself up from the bed and faces Morgan.

Only another Fairy of Paradise may understand the hardships of being an inherently unwanted existence in Fairy Britain — only Morgan could answer questions Artoria doesn’t know to ask.

“Did you have a family?” Artoria asks, expecting the incoming pain an answer would provide. “A mother?”

‘One who wasn’t a stranger, who actually gave a damn about you?’

“… very well.” Morgan exhales slowly and sits down on the edge of Artoria’s bed. “If you wish to discuss personal matters, I will indulge you.”

Artoria bites her lip when she sees that Morgan’s icy composure doesn’t flinch even when her heart is clouded in unspeakable sadness, guilt, and regret — a cold, biting pain that eats away at one’s soul.

“I was raised in Orkney by the Rain Clan. Mother, Father, and my older sister were the ones who took care of me. Mother — head of the Rain Clan — took me in as her own daughter.”

These words plunge a knife into Artoria’s stomach, twisting it for good measure. Nausea rises up her throat, burning hot and threatening at knowing the other Fairy of Paradise had what Artoria wouldn’t even dare to dream of.

“Despite being a Fairy of Paradise, they loved me unquestionably. They cared for my happiness more than they did about their own safety.”

The bitter jealousy gets stuck in Artoria’s throat at the implications — Morgan wouldn’t need to continue. The outcome is already clear when there is no Rain Clan in Fairy Britain, and when Morgan’s only known family is her daughter — Fairy Knight Tristan.

“… what happened?” Artoria asks anyway.

“The Rain Clan is no more. There is no need to concern yourself with such old tales. It is a matter of the past. I hardly remember those days,” Morgan concludes.

‘… she’s an awful liar…’

Artoria couldn’t bear to call Morgan out on a lie the Winter Queen tells herself for the detachment required to stay sane.

While Artoria has a home she could return to, although she would rather not set foot into Tintagel ever again — Morgan has no such choice. The home she used to have is no longer; there is no place Morgan could return to, even if she wanted.

The happiness and warmth Artoria can only envy were temporary guests in Morgan’s life.

At some point in that past, Morgan must have been much like Artoria. No place to go, no point to remain at.

“And what… what did you do then?”

“I set out on my first pilgrimage, of course.”

Nothing Artoria can do; not without opposing Morgan. Nothing she even wants to do.

“… and then?”

“For ages, I pacified conflicts, ended wars, and fought calamities. Until, eventually… I quit acting as their savior.”

Although capable of feats Artoria could never dream of achieving, even Morgan eventually gave up on playing Fairy Britain’s “savior” — something Artoria had given up on before giving it as much as a try.

“So there were two saviors in the past,” Artoria mutters her conclusion.

‘And neither of them saved anything, huh… No way I could’ve done anything…’

“Two? What are you talking about?” Morgan turns to face Artoria, confused.

“Uh… You, and the savior Tonelico?”

In that moment, Artoria realizes something that doesn’t add up — something that has escaped her originally, when she has been too focused on the tale of Morgan’s past.

‘… come to think of it, there are no legends or stories about a savior called Morgan… Wait, does that mean—’

“There has been no more than a single savior in this land. The past ‘savior’ Tonelico is the current queen Morgan.”

“…uh… huh? What?”

Artoria blinks a few times, not that it aids her mind in catching up to a revelation which’s irony couldn’t be more bitter. The perfect savior of the past, whose return fairies see in the Child of Prophecy, has never left Fairy Britain — instead, she rules this land with an iron fist now.

Only fairies could turn their savior into a tyrannical ruler. It comes as no surprise when Artoria thinks about it. What else would become of a savior of Fairy Britain?

Artoria can’t help but snort at the ridiculous truth under everyone’s nose.

“It’s really… all hopeless, isn’t it?” With nothing that could do the overflowing despair justice, Artoria’s nervous system relieves its toil with a miserable chuckle. “They turned the one who worked her ass off for them into a control freak, and now expect the next one to fix their mess for them.”

Morgan listens to the cynical rambles of Artoria, who’s never been more honest in expressing her true feelings than she is in this very moment. Now that there is no need for pretense or a strong facade, not in front of someone who’s been at the same end of the threatening blade of expectations.

“They don’t deserve a savior,” Artoria concludes. “They can save themselves for all I care.”

“I see we are in agreement now.”

Artoria doesn’t bother correcting Morgan — telling her that she’s always felt this way, from the very beginning.

“Although…” Artoria can’t help remembering the time she’s spent with Ector, forging armor and accessories. “… not all fairies are all that bad.”

“That is true.”

“Maybe there is someone I do miss a bit,” Artoria admits in a quiet voice. “He isn’t part of Tintagel since he lives outside of the village, but Ector was always nice to me… Well, maybe a bit grumpy.”

The memory paints a rare, honest smile on Artoria’s face. Ector has been the only source of warmth and care in her life — rare as the times she could visit him were. Those brief instances still hold a special place in her heart.

Meanwhile, at the mention, Morgan’s eyes widened for less than a moment.

“… Ector? … I see.”

Complicated feelings that even fairy eyes struggle to discern engulf Morgan’s heart — a swirl of varying emotions fighting for dominance. Sadness and regret, loneliness and hurt, relief and worry — mixing into a blurry soup so sour it would kill any taste bud in a heartbeat.

“… huh? Do you know him?”

“I do not. The name merely reminds me of someone I used to call a friend ages ago. They are not the same person.”

Artoria sees a lie and honesty at the same time. Perhaps Morgan herself isn’t sure of what’s the truth, and what she’s trying to make herself believe.

“I only visited him a few times. Ector, I mean,” Artoria continues, following a hunch that Morgan would care to know. “He’s a real grouch. He kept scolding me when I messed up, and he called me a ‘Demon Boar’ a few times.”

The image of Ector working on another piece of armor commissioned while Artoria does her best to help him out, dropping a few resources in the process to Ector’s annoyance, is more vivid in Artoria’s memory than any experience in Tintagel.

Even when Artoria made a mistake, destroyed an important accessory, or lost resources… Ector never got mad at her. Annoyed, and he complained, but then he simply tousled Artoria’s hair and told her not to worry about it.

“He seemed happy by himself in his little shop. He was doing well… though he didn’t really like company. Somehow he still never sent me away, though.”

Morgan’s calm exhale does nothing to mask the relief washing over her. Artoria won’t pry; whether and how Morgan knows Ector is none of her business. She’d almost entertain the thought that the fairy Ector often said Artoria reminds him of could be Morgan — if not for the sheer impossibility of that being the case.

Entirely uncalled for, Artoria’s stomach grumbles as a call for attention — flustering the poor, hungry girl immediately for such a display in front of the queen who’s meant to be her adversary. With whom she’s just been reminiscing as though they are old friends.

“T-that… It’s not—”

Artoria hears the blood rushing in her ears while her face heats up to a temperature that could melt steel. Of all the times to embarrass herself like this, it has to be now.

Morgan shows a rare, weak smile at the surprising normalcy of this moment — something the Winter Queen hasn’t known in forever. A lack of stakes, an honesty that feigns nothing.

“You should ensure to sate yourself, Artoria,” Morgan says, and it almost sounds playful enough to carry a hint of tease. “I will have Gawain prepare a fresh meal for you immediately.”

Done with this exchange of memories, Morgan gets up from the bed, only to pause her step when she feels a tug on her dress. Artoria has reached out, her hand pulling at the black fabric — like a small child who doesn’t want to be alone, or a lonely pet that demands more attention.

Morgan raises an eyebrow at the surprising display of need. She has no idea what it is that Artoria would require from her.

“I— … thanks,” Artoria mumbles, furthering Morgan’s confusion.

No words could do the immense relief this conversation provides to Artoria justice — still clouded by the remaining tension and pressure that will take time to clear up, but undeniably at the beginning of their dissipation.

There is nothing rarer in this world, much especially in Fairy Britain, than meeting someone who shares your pain. Someone with the same scars etched into their soul, the same heartbreak engraved in their entire being.

As different as their lives are, Morgan and Artoria share the same burden. They weren’t very alike by any means, and yet, they could understand each other better than anyone. A privilege of a fellow Fairy of Paradise.

Morgan doesn’t believe she’s done anything of note for Artoria. She cannot see the immeasurable comfort and healing mere understanding brought to the damaged soul of Artoria, who’s been all alone in her pessimistic hurt.

“If you wish to show your gratitude, I will always welcome you as a loyal subordinate,” Morgan says.

For the first time, although it annoys Artoria greatly to be looked down on as ‘subordinate,’ it’s worth consideration. Who else to follow in this wretched hell but Morgan, who understands the nature of Fairy Britain?

“I… I’ll think about it.”

Artoria settled on procrastinating her decision. Even now, her heart still refuses to fully let go of the hopes and expectations placed on her by the fairies. Knowing they’re the source of all her anguish doesn’t change that.

The inherent calling towards one’s purpose is nothing that’s easy to ignore for a fairy.

But, compared to before — it doesn’t feel impossible anymore. Perhaps Artoria could come to allow herself to properly and fully give up, to not allow a foolish sense of hope and duty keep her attached anymore to a destiny she’s never cared about.

“I will await your answer.”

Artoria finally lets go of Morgan’s dress, realizing how embarrassing this display is. It’s not like Artoria feels lonely here. She’s used to being by herself, it’s nothing that bothers her.

And yet, once Morgan leaves the room, the temperature seemingly drops. An empty cold embraces the chamber and Artoria in Morgan’s absence — solitude that freezes like ice.

To combat the arising shiver, Artoria pulls up the blanket and wraps it around herself. It reminds Artoria of how an embrace must feel — one that she wishes she could lean into.

“… maybe Morgan isn’t that bad after all.”

Although weary, a faint smile creeps onto Artoria’s face — it brings warmth to her eyes again. Not enough to return the verdancy, but watering sprouts that may one day bloom into a genuine shine of hope.

For some reason, once more, Artoria finds tears welling up — tears that carry emotional exhaustion with them once they fall.

“Since when was I such a crybaby…?”