#castoria

03 - Wavering

Nothing on earth feels closer to heaven than a bed in the morning when you could doze back off any moment and have no intention of getting up just yet. Covered by the blanket you’ve snuggled yourself into in a subconscious longing to remain in this state.

Warm, safe. No problems arise, no flow of time is perceivable — peace.

Artoria can’t bring herself to part with this previously unknown taste of genuine bliss. She rouses, and turns; yet, this bed in the room that keeps her prisoner remains perfectly inviting. Like an embrace of kindness that only exists in dreams, not truly permitted in Fairy Britain.

It’s easy to ignore the sound of the door opening and closing; easy to pretend it to be a trick of Artoria’s imagination.

The soft clicking of heels on the tiled floor echoes through the room, slowly approaching the bed with each step. Artoria’s hand clutches the blanket, and she shuts her eyes tightly. The steps stop near the bed, not quite next to it.

A distanced approach, heels, and a lack of words — Morgan. Who else would move with such grace?

Who else would even visit Artoria?

‘Go away. Leave me alone.’

If she remains still, Artoria believes — hopes — that Morgan would assume her to be asleep still and leave.

Artoria doesn’t want to see anyone right now, or ever again. She doesn’t want to talk to anyone. Done with it all, and unwilling to face another fairy after pathetically bawling her eyes out before crying herself to sleep.

What a miserable Child of Prophecy she is. No matter how low the expectations, Artoria manages to disappoint them in an impressive manner. She has no doubt about that. But now she’s done with that, too.

Suddenly, the blanket is ripped from Artoria’s clutches, flying off to the foot of the bed, where it folds itself neatly.

“I am here to continue from yesterday,” Morgan says.

Whether Morgan has known Artoria to not actually be asleep or simply doesn’t care not to disturb her prisoner’s slumber — she’s not cutting Artoria any slack.

Annoyed at her layer of defense against the cold, cruel world being taken away without warning, Artoria grits her teeth and sits up to face Morgan. Her hand grips the sheet tightly to channel her bubbling-up anger.

Not even solitude is granted to Artoria when she wants it.

“What’s there to continue?” Artoria snarls.

“We have not reached a consensus about your pilgrimage and where your allegiance lies.”

Morgan crosses her arms in front of her chest, looking down on Artoria naturally due to her height. It makes her appear even more imposing — not that this is necessary — and Artoria’s first instinct is to cower and hide in the corner of the cage like a scared wild animal.

Her second instinct is to bite back — defiance for the sake of fighting back. As though it’s the final chance at escape from the clutches of certain demise; a miniscule chance that’s better than none.

Not that Artoria has any real intention to escape; but the lack of resolve is something her body is unaware of.

“… I told you I can’t,” Artoria repeats.

She wants to. Artoria wants nothing more than to be a normal girl, study magecraft, and feel the ease of a life not weighed down by burdens she never asked for.

And yet, she cannot abandon the hopes placed on her. Like a curse — an accumulation of curses — Artoria feels bound to following the path laid out for her. Even though she will surely fail, even though she’s already failed… she cannot abandon this hope.

Artoria cannot let everyone down. Her heart refuses to.

“You can,” Morgan disagrees, as though she is merely explaining possibilities that don’t seem to register for Artoria. “I, too, am a Fairy of Paradise. We may abandon our purpose without losing our self.”

‘… huh? What?’

Morgan being a Fairy of Paradise is news; this isn’t something Artoria had expected.

… it’s not something anyone would believe just being told, something much too outrageous to be taken at face value. Nothing but a delusional joke, with how big the gap between Morgan and Artoria is in just about every way — prowess, confidence, magecraft, height.

Maybe, if one were to squint, their faces could look the slightest bit alike.

“Are you… really?”

Was Morgan as weak as Artoria once? Was she hated, too? Did she have all the expectations of everyone else placed on her back? Did she want to run away to a normal life as well?

Did Morgan ever want to give up…? Did she feel crushed by her fate as though she’s stuck underneath boulders, a new one dropping on the pile every single day, knocking the final breath out of her collapsing lungs?

That— No, it’s simply impossible to imagine. Someone like Morgan could never know such struggles.

“There is no sense in doubting my words when you can see that I am not telling a lie.”

“… right.”

Not even Morgan could lie past Fairy Eyes; nobody is exempt from this curse of seeing through falsehoods. Morgan is telling the truth, Artoria knows that. She knows, and yet…

That doesn’t make it any easier to believe.

“The fairies have no need for a savior. That will do this country no good,” Morgan says coldly, like a queen who’s long since given up on her own people. Perhaps she has. “You will suffer for their selfish whims until they turn on you… if they haven’t already.”

“… what do you know,” Artoria mumbles, looking away.

Turning on Artoria? Is this what’s awaiting her, even if she completes the pilgrimage? Is Artoria the next enemy for fairykind — the next Morgan?

That’s a joke, a bad one at that. How does that differ from Artoria’s life until now?

You cannot turn on someone you’ve always been against from the very start, and it’s impossible to backstab someone if you’ve been ramming knives into their soul from day one.

‘… what bullshit…’

It’s no surprise that the fairies’ opinion won’t change for the better even if Artoria were the perfect Child of Prophecy, fulfilling all the expectations without flaw. Not that she could.

But even in that hypothetical scenario — she won’t be forgiven, and the hatred directed at her won’t leave. It’ll be shown more openly, if anything.

“You are truly… hardheaded.” A conscious effort not to offend by voicing a more genuine impression. “I believe we are done for today.”

‘For forever,’ Artoria adds mentally.

Morgan leaves without uttering a single other word. Tension dissipates from Artoria’s body, and she releases a stuttering breath that feels as though it carries all the wracked nerves with it.

Once more, Morgan hasn’t killed Artoria. Hasn’t hurt her even.

Artoria brushes her hand over the sheets, feeling the soft fabric. It’s different from hay — more comfortable, not a single blade poking her as she lies on it. It doesn’t feel like Artoria belongs.

Although unsure of how steady her limbs are today, Artoria shuffles to the edge of the bed and gets up from it. Her legs feel sore, but stable enough to support her weight today. However many hours she’s rested, it has really allowed her to properly recuperate.

She only passes a glance at the door through which Morgan left, not even considering to open it. Behind it are the halls of Camelot, and that’s no place Artoria wishes to explore, regardless of whether she could.

Artoria is all too familiar with this treatment, being bound to one particular place. If she’d ever been able to consider escape at some point in her life, it has been Tintagel that has thoroughly wiped that option from her mind. Even now, that remains unchanged; inhibition reaching as far as her subconscious to prevent any spark that could turn into an idea of flight.

This arrangement is simply accepted, just like the barn. Day after day, Artoria will make it through somehow.

In the bathroom, Artoria finds what she’s only heard of before — a bathtub. It appears big enough for her whole body to sink into the water if filled. Artoria’s hand traces the tub’s edge, wondering how a bath would feel.

She knows bathtubs supposedly have warm water, hot even. Not that Artoria ever has been in one; that’s a luxury not permitted for a simple village girl hated by everyone.

But she doesn’t know how to work those handles, and doesn’t dare to try, lest Artoria could break something.

When she gets up from her crouching position, her eyes meet her reflection’s on the wall.

“… a mirror…” Another object she only has limited experience with.

Artoria’s expression morphs into a frown at the sight of herself, after which she immediately looks away from this cursed reflection.

Disheveled hair that’s almost never been properly combed and brushed, chapped lips. Her eyes are bloodshot. Not that that’s a surprise, when the day before she’s cried enough to make up for almost 20 years of being unable to shed a single tear.

Emotions pile up inside one’s heart, ready to burst but unable to release — once that valve opens, there’s no stopping the overflowing feelings.

Artoria clenches her fist, her nails digging into the skin of her palm as these memories make her want to cry at her own embarrassing, sheer incompetence again.

After taking three steps back, Artoria’s back meets the cold tiles of the wall behind her. She slides down to the ground, hugging her knees to her chest as she sits on the cold bathroom floor.

She looks pathetic and abandoned — seeing it for herself hit like a sucker punch aimed straight at a sore bruise; Artoria doesn’t want to see her face ever again. It’s better she doesn’t. Pain is easier to ignore when one remains blissfully ignorant of the scars that remain.

‘I hate all of this…’

Artoria knows how miserable she is — stooped so much lower than she’d ever thought possible, displaying weakness she always knew better than to show — and how this doesn’t suit her at all. Where’s that smile she flashed whenever anything went wrong?

But in truth, this is Artoria, and always has been. Pitiful, a worthless good-for-nothing who can’t even believe in herself. Who wants to hide away and do nothing, too afraid to do anything wrong. Too sure she can’t do anything right.

She flinches when she hears the other door open, but this time, the steps are heavy. No grace in them, only a lot of weight and an annoying confidence that makes Artoria stick out her tongue in disgust.

Barghest.

Doesn’t that Fairy Knight have anything better to do than disturb Artoria’s wallowing in her own misery?

“Child of Prophecy,” Barghest addresses Artoria, all formal and serious. Somehow that’s even more annoying. “I have brought a change of clothes. I assume you are in the bath, so I will place it on the bed.”

Normally, Artoria would at least mutter a ‘thanks’… but when it comes to Barghest, that would feel like admitting defeat.

“All right,” Artoria says.

“Her Majesty has ordered me to prepare a meal for you. I’m not familiar with your preferences and intolerances, so I would appreciate some pointers.”

Artoria doesn’t want to accept food if it’s from Barghest. She really, really doesn’t. But her stomach feels like a black hole about to suck itself in at the mere mention of food. How long has it been since she’s last eaten…?

Her mouth waters at the thought of a meal.

“Anything’s fine,” Artoria mutters in defeat which she won’t forgive herself for. “But I want a big portion.”

At least this bit of defiance is necessary — a small hint of rebellion by asking for something that would cause extra effort.

If Barghest wants to play maid so badly, Artoria will humor her.

“Understood. I will return once I have finished preparations.”

Barghest leaves again, after which Artoria peeks into the room that serves as her prison. A stack of neatly folded clothes is on her bed, apparently left to herself to put into the dresser.

Artoria sighs. She can’t hide in this bathroom forever, can she? Not even hiding under the blanket worked.

“Why Bageko of all things?” Artoria mutters in annoyance.

The mind is beautifully capable of keeping itself from breaking down — focusing on one minor inconvenience, any little indignation, so it can block out the thoughts that would otherwise spiral and cause harm to itself.

Nobody and nothing can resist a convenient scapegoat, if only to stay sane.

Artoria drags her feet back to the bed, inspecting the spare clothes she’s been brought. None of them seem overly fancy or special; plain dresses of varying cuts. Some are white, most come in different shades of blue.

Underwear is stacked on top of the dresses, and the sight of it heats up Artoria’s cheeks. Someone has to have picked them for her, and probably imagined her wearing them.

Barghest, at the very least, has seen them, and would know Artoria’s underwear if she puts on any of them.

“Ah, screw this…!!”

Artoria grabs the panties and flings them against the wall without thinking, anything to get them out of her sight. The fabric has felt stupidly silky and nice, too.

Everything in Camelot is fancy and luxurious, especially compared to Artoria’s previous life.

This is practically mockery. Flaunting all this extravagance, which a common village girl wouldn’t even dare to dream of, like it’s the most natural, everyday thing to have available.

With a scoff at this utter gaudiness, Artoria takes the dresses and brings them to the dresser. She pulls out two drawers and throws in the clothes, not caring to keep them as neatly folded as they are.

Nothing else can suffer the wrath of her helplessness, so these pieces of clothing must do.

Once the drawers are slammed shut, Artoria releases a deep breath.

‘This sucks.’

She doesn’t understand why, but Artoria feels worse here than she’s ever done in Tintagel. Despite being surrounded by comfort and all the free time in the world, her life has narrowed down to this small point of existence.

Working one’s bones off is one thing when there’s some kind of freedom waiting around the corner someday — but once you’ve reached a dead end, no matter how big the space, it’ll feel suffocating.

No path leaves no goal, and nothing to aim for.

When the tunnel has no end, there’s no light waiting anywhere either — only more darkness, more humid cold that seeps to your bones.

How long would Artoria be able to stay in Camelot? Not that Morgan would let her go; that doesn’t seem probable. But Artoria has no idea what Morgan wants from her either.

‘No point in thinking about that…’

Artoria doesn’t understand Morgan. If she’s being honest, Artoria has to admit that she’s never truly understood anyone. Not even Fairy Eyes are a shortcut to understanding another; if anything, they make it more difficult.

Maybe Artoria doesn’t even really understand herself either. No way she could understand anyone else then.

Before she can follow that train of thought further, it halts when Barghest returns pushing a service cart in front of her. It looks laughable to see the oversized, bulky Barghest hunch over to push this too-small cart.

It serves that haughty fairy knight just right. Maybe it’ll add a pain in the back to that pain in the neck it apparently is to talk to someone much shorter who’s actually a normal height.

If only this petty grudge were a weapon, Artoria would be capable of taking on any enemy — including Morgan.

Like the perfectly chivalrous knight she irritatingly is, Barghest picks up a lone chair from one side of the room and places it in front of the service cart for Artoria to take a seat.

Deciding to act like she’s the superior one, Artoria stalks over and sits down on the chair, after which Barghest pushes the chair closer to the service cart that would function as a table, closing the distance.

‘… somehow this feels like she’s looking down on me…’

Physically, Barghest can’t help but look down on Artoria; the height difference leaves no room for an even eye level between the two. This is bad enough on its own, but when this extends to the mental side, Barghest clearly looks down on Artoria in every way.

Someday, Artoria will take Barghest down a peg for that.

“Please, enjoy your meal,” Barghest says, oblivious to the petty feelings directed at her.

“I’ll try,” Artoria mutters.

She doesn’t want to indulge Barghest like that. Despite what her begging stomach is praying for, Artoria hopes the food is practically inedible. If only because she could chew out Barghest for that.

But it doesn’t even look bad… not at all. In fact, this meal looks seriously high class. If Artoria had any table manners, she’d feel bad about eating such a grandiose meal in the first place.

Instead, she grabs the fork and digs in — the knife stays abandoned on the other side of the plate. Back in Tintagel, Artoria has rarely used cutlery to begin with, and she’s never had the opportunity to eat with a knife and fork. She’s good with her hands, and can manage with a fork.

Barghest stops herself from clearing her throat at the lack of manners, realizing that she shouldn’t expect too much from a fairy who lacks any proper education in etiquette or otherwise.

The harsh life is evident in all the small signs — blisters on Artoria’s hands speak of days of physical labor, missing toes she consciously tries to hide speak of hardships uncommon even for a poor village girl.

And the eyes — reddened from what must have been a harsh night, yet the warm emerald has never dulled. A glimmer of hope, and a strong determination shine in those eyes.

It’s a strength that Barghest can appreciate, even if it may not amount to much.

Artoria’s mouth waters even more after the first few bites than it had earlier when she’s only thought of food. Meat that’s so tender that it practically melts on her tongue, leaving a rich, savory taste behind, that makes Artoria wish it’d be all her taste buds would remember.

The side dishes complement this rich taste beautifully — vegetables adding a fresh note, and mashed potatoes so fluffy and soft, it’s like enjoying a cloud seasoned with the finest herbs and a pinch of salt.

Not even Artoria can deny that Barghest is a splendid cook. In fact, this almost makes up for all her flaws in personality and appearance. Almost.

No, not even close.

Once Artoria is done wolfing down the food, as though she has no appreciation for finer cuisine — when she’s enjoyed the meal more than anyone else could have — she can’t help but wish for seconds.

Not that she’d let Barghest know this. That’s a victory Artoria won’t grant her.

Begrudgingly, Artoria has to accept that Barghest has won this round in a battle Barghest doesn’t even know is happening between the two.

“A healthy appetite,” Barghest comments, biting her tongue when it comes to her thoughts about Artoria’s lack of grace. “As a cook, I take this as a compliment.”

‘Tch, there she goes, being cocky as usual… Damn you, Bageko…’

“It was all right,” Artoria concedes.

It wouldn’t kill her to simply admit how good the food tasted, but Artoria isn’t willing to take that risk regardless. If nothing else, it would sour the aftertaste too much. Maybe if there were a dessert waiting…

But no, Artoria shakes that idea out of her head. She’s growing way too cozy with Barghest, and with being in Camelot. Morgan, that cunning queen…!

“I will increase the size of the portion for tomorrow,” Barghest decides, even though Artoria hasn’t asked for it.

“… don’t you have anything better to do than playing cook?”

“I do not have a current mission, if that is what you mean,” Barghest says. “Her Majesty sent me to capture the Child of Prophecy that was said to be sheltered in Tintagel.”

“You’ve already done that, though,” Artoria voices her bitter reminder to Barghest.

A subtle, implicated way to tell Barghest she’s unwanted here. Not that she takes a hint. Dense like a rock with a body like a boulder.

“Yes, and I was planning to return to Manchester until I would be needed by Her Majesty’s side again. However, I was now tasked with seeing to your culinary well-being, Child of Prophecy.”

Great. Just freaking great, of all the Fairy Knights available, Morgan assigned Barghest as the babysitter. Artoria wants to throw up her own disgust.

“I don’t know why you’re bothering,” Artoria mutters. Barghest is confused by the remark, prompting Artoria to continue. “Why capture me? Morgan had all the other fairies suspected to be the Child of Prophecy killed immediately.”

“That is true,” Barghest agrees. “I do not know her reasons. That is of no concern to me. When she received word of the Child of Prophecy named Artoria in Tintagel, she changed her order to capture you alive and bring you here.”

Artoria scoffs. Barghest hasn’t even thought to ask about such a strange, out of nowhere change of command?

“You sure trust Morgan, huh.”

“Of course I do. You may not know this, Child of Prophecy, but Her Majesty is my savior.”

Artoria wants to laugh at that line — Morgan, who herself has told Artoria that fairies need no savior, and would turn on one if they had them? That Morgan being called by the title of the savior from ages ago, Tonelico? Ridiculous.

“And not only me — Her Majesty keeps the Moss and calamities at bay. I know no other fairy capable of such a feat, and no other fairy who would take on these responsibilities.”

“… I guess that’s true,” Artoria agrees.

Nobody but Morgan would be stupid enough to do so much for those who utterly hate and despise her, to the point of pushing a village girl to become the hand that kills the evil queen terrorizing Fairy Britain with her iron rule.

A selfish fool of a queen, for an egoistical land that relies on a prophecy to free them from their turmoil.

“You could not take her place. Not on the throne, not for this land,” Barghest reminds Artoria, though she doesn’t need to. Artoria is well aware of that without being told. “There is no point in going up against Her Majesty.”

Artoria doesn’t deem that worthy of a remark — rather, she doesn’t have anything to say.

Barghest finally takes a hint and leaves, taking the service cart along with her, and placing the chair back against a wall as to not be a bother in this empty room with a single inhabitant who’s never chosen to be here.

Alone and in peace, Artoria flops down on the bed, facing the ceiling.

“No point, huh?” Artoria repeats Barghest’s words with a bitter smile that doesn’t reach her eyes. “I don’t need you to tell me that, Bageko…”

02 - Morgan

The first thing Artoria notices when her consciousness slowly returns is the uncharacteristic silence — the lack of the environmental sounds she’s grown used to.

No gusts of wind slipping through between crooked wooden planks of a hastily put together barn to create a low howl, no buzzing of insects, and no fairies bustling nearby.

There’s no knocking on the barn’s frail door, no objects hitting any of the walls after being thrown at Artoria’s home for no other reason but to lure her out without having to get too close. Often for no reason at all.

It’s peaceful, suspiciously so. As though this is a dream, but none of those she’s familiar with.

It’s too warm to be one of Artoria’s dreams, too tranquil and gentle. No dream would feel like this; they wouldn’t permit any rest in which she can let down her guard even momentarily.

When Artoria rouses, she feels soft fabric brush against her arm. Smoother than the tattered clothes she’s used to. There’s not a single stalk of hay stabbing her; the surface she lies on is perfectly comfortable, yielding to her weight a bit.

‘… where—!?’

Artoria sits up immediately, her heart almost leaping out of her ribcage when the last moments from before she was out cold flash before her mind again: Barghest, a short conversation — no more than that.

Caught. Captured. No idea how much time has passed, not a single clue as to where she is.

Heat and cold are fighting for dominance inside of Artoria’s body as the realization of her situation sinks in and becomes too real too soon. Too much to handle for both her mind and body, through which a searing heat that burns like ice spreads.

The disorientation doesn’t help Artoria form a clear thought, as she can barely register details of her surroundings. Her senses shut down to standby, filtering what’s not processable. Nothing besides the fact that she’s in an unfamiliar room, almost as big as her barn, makes it through to her brain.

A cold sweat makes Artoria shudder when she realizes where she must be — Camelot.

“You’re awake.”

The all too calm, disinterested voice catches Artoria’s full attention immediately. Silky soft and smooth, yet icy cold.

A tall woman with blueish white hair, a black dress with blue highlights, and dull blue eyes that have long since lost their shine, stands up from a chair in the room’s corner where she’s been sitting. Waiting for Artoria to regain consciousness.

She carries herself with the confidence only a naturally gifted fairy would know and the grace only a noble could possess. Her mere presence is a force that commands utter submission from everything and everyone in her vicinity. Maybe it reaches even beyond such limited borders.

This fundamental display of power and unquestionable superiority from a beauty that’s hard to be rivaled leaves no doubt as to who this fairy is, even if Artoria has never personally seen her before.

“Morgan…!” Artoria snarls.

Faced with her destined foe, the cruel Winter Queen of Fairy Britain, animosity wells up in Artoria immediately. Like a caged beast that has been resting, waiting for this exact moment to finally bare its teeth, Artoria’s belligerence rears its head.

Cornered as she may be — in enemy territory even — for Artoria, fight always takes priority over flight. This hardheadedness has carried her through all that Tintagel has thrown at her, and it won’t back down even faced with Morgan.

“Do not misunderstand your position, Child of Prophecy. I have no intention of engaging you,” Morgan says, closing her eyes as she steps towards the bed on which Artoria sits, fist clutching the blanket that’s still covering half her body.

Morgan remains unbothered. As though she possesses no sense for Artoria’s hostility flaring up like carelessly forgotten embers near woods, risking a forest fire engulfing everything in its uncontrollably destructive nature.

Artoria wants to talk back for the sake of argument. Ask questions to which the answers wouldn’t matter. Anything that gives form to the defiance Artoria feels in her core; the growing dissent that pushes any weakness that may stand in its way aside.

Yet, all Artoria manages is to silently glare at the audacity of Morgan, who won’t even take her seriously.

Like when cornered, near-captured prey rises up in retaliation for the sake of plain survival, the desperate effort matters not to the predator. When the outcome is already decided, and the end result cannot be changed.

Fairy Eyes don’t lie — Morgan is as impassive as she appears. Artoria — anything Artoria may do or say — is wholly irrelevant to her.

The Child of Prophecy does not concern the Winter Queen. Their positions are unquestionable.

“You are no threat whatsoever,” Morgan states, meeting Artoria’s gaze head-on. Her eyes look through Artoria rather than at her, that’s how insignificant even the Child of Prophecy is in front of Morgan.

But Artoria is not that easily intimidated, even with the hair on her nape standing up, even with her throat feeling dry enough to scratch. She stills the trembling of her hand, whether from fear or anger — or both — is something Artoria won’t linger on.

“Is that so?” Artoria grits her teeth. The Winter Queen should reconsider; she shall be proven wrong. Morgan should look at Artoria, at the very least.

… shouldn’t she?

“You have not rung a single bell,” Morgan recounts. “Without the pilgrimage, even the Child of Prophecy is weaker than a mere human.”

‘… so what!?’

Artoria wishes once more to talk back, but she cannot bring herself to do so. The words stay stuck in her own mind, where it’s easy to act defiant. The syllables that make it farther get stuck in her throat, where the constriction allows not a single sound through.

There’s no choice but to accept the futility, when even Artoria cannot defend herself. Her eyes wander down to the blanket she’s gripping tightly, as though her life depends on it. A dulled, light blue, almost gray.

It feels familiar, as though its color paints the state of Artoria’s soul. Nothing vivid about it, not remarkable in the slightest. Easy to look past, even easier to cast aside.

Artoria knows Morgan’s words to be true; she knows better than anyone just how pathetically useless she is. Not for a second has Artoria genuinely believed she could ever stand up to Morgan.

The pilgrimage has always been a pipe dream. Nothing but foolish grandeur, an expectation Artoria has run with — after having it forced upon her by the whims of others — for no other reason but it being inevitable; not because she could do it. Artoria isn’t capable.

And Morgan has realized the same thing.

The flames of rebellion, stoked by the presence of her arch-nemesis and fueled by sheer obstinacy, meet the heavy rain of calculated realism, of observation and conclusion. They’re extinguished, leaving frail ashes behind.

Like a balloon quickly filled with air, Artoria’s bout of courage has been a fleeting experience. Temporary, until the smallest sharp object pokes a hole into the membrane — immediately deflating the balloon that’s Artoria’s determination.

It’s not meant to last, and once crushed, cannot well up in the same manner again.

‘… I really am no good, huh?’

Artoria stays silent; there is nothing she could say to persuade Morgan. Not when Artoria herself doesn’t have the slightest bit of faith in her capabilities.

One cannot convince another that they’re wrong when what they’re saying is nothing but the truth.

‘… This will be my end…’

Without being able — willing — to fight back, Artoria is at Morgan’s mercy. Artoria realizes this now, more than before. Now that her mind is of calm serenity — once her fighting spirit has turned dormant, as it shall be.

There is no question as to what Morgan’s plans with the Child of Prophecy are.

The queen’s army has executed every single fairy that has been suspected of possibly being the prophesied one; no exceptions have ever been made. The genuine Child of Prophecy won’t be any different.

As the one single threat to Morgan’s rule, the one thorn in her side, it’s only natural she’d want Artoria gone.

Although Morgan has said herself that she doesn’t even perceive Artoria as a threat. At worst, Artoria’s existence may be a little stone in Morgan’s shoe — annoying, but nothing that commands immediate attention. Or any at all. A minor inconvenience, so easy to look past.

‘At least it’s finally over…’

Tintagel is behind her, and the pilgrimage is the furthest from Artoria’s mind. Everything comes to an end here; there’s no way Artoria could flee Camelot. Not by herself, not even if she had the support of many others… which she doesn’t.

Artoria would’ve failed either way.

It has been a matter of time, nothing more. Eventually, sooner or later, Artoria would have fallen into Morgan’s hands for sure, if not killed by one of her Fairy Knights without ever meeting Morgan personally.

There has never been a possibility in which things would go differently. For someone who cannot even stand up to the common fairy, a pilgrimage is impossible. It will end in ruin, try as one might.

Considering that, this premature end to her story is merciful. Artoria accepts it.

Artoria embraces her demise.

If she’d known this to be an option, she might’ve wished for it much sooner. This is the one way to absolve herself of all the burdens and expectations immediately, to just be done with it all. No consequences. No lingering regrets.

“However,” Morgan interrupts Artoria’s self-loathing, in which the genuine feelings of despair she normally doesn’t allow herself take hold, “I do not see you as my enemy either.”

Artoria blinks — she’s not perceived as Morgan’s enemy? Despite her entire being existing to oppose Morgan?

“… what?”

“You have done nothing to oppose me. I have no reason to see you as an enemy. It follows that I have no reason to treat you as an enemy either.”

“B-but—”

“Naturally,” Morgan continues, her voice carrying a warning edge that threatens to cut any fool careless enough not to practice caution, “That will change if you are to follow the prophecy and set out on the pilgrimage.”

Artoria tries to swallow, but the lump in her throat that has appeared out of nowhere to replace the dryness makes that difficult. She’s all too conscious of how strangulated she feels by the oppressive air, by Morgan’s threat.

Morgan watches as Artoria ponders over her options — over whether she even has any.

“Forsake your destiny, Child of Prophecy,” Morgan utters almost as an order, though it carries the sincerity of a plea. “Do not follow the prophecy. Do not go on the pilgrimage. Do not even ring a single bell.”

What Morgan asks for is simple. It’s the first time anyone has told Artoria this; any other time, the expectations to do all these things have been placed on her instead.

Artoria cannot place the feeling that twists her stomach into a knot. Wrong. Strange. Foreign at best, nothing that seems right. This isn’t — shouldn’t be — an option.

After all, it has never been a matter of choice.

Inevitable fate, that’s what the prophecy is. Artoria has been born for this purpose, and she would carry it out or die trying. As a fairy, nothing matters more than the purpose she’s born for. That’s how Fairy Britain works.

Even if personally, Artoria couldn’t care less about this purpose.

“I don’t have a choice,” Artoria mumbles, not facing Morgan.

There’s nothing but the failure to fulfill the prophecy waiting for Artoria. If Morgan can save Artoria from this destiny — then Artoria pleads with Morgan to extend this mercy.

Against all odds, against common sense, Artoria hopes that the Winter Queen possesses a heart after all.

‘It’s what I have to do. Just… just kill me. Kill me so I don’t have to.’

Artoria knows Morgan could easily end her life with a single swift move. Morgan has decimated groups of fairies personally before, Artoria has heard the stories.

If it’s Morgan to behead Artoria or pierce her heart, she wouldn’t feel a thing, and neither would Morgan. It’s so easy. So simple.

The one, straight-forward way out.

“You are mistaken,” Morgan chastises. “It is your own choice.”

Artoria turns to look at Morgan — the queen’s expression hasn’t changed a bit, and she’s entirely serious. The one person who leaves the decision to Artoria herself is the one who should care about Artoria’s whims the least.

It’s more heartless than the selfishness of the fairies who leave Artoria no real agency; those were egoistic and reprehensible.

Unlike them, Morgan respects Artoria’s wishes.

“I don’t care about the prophecy,” Artoria admits. She doesn’t want to do it. She doesn’t want to try and fail, Artoria doesn’t want to hurt anymore. “But, but I— I can’t let everyone down.”

This is so annoying. Even given the choice, Artoria is incapable of making it; clinging to her status as Child of Prophecy like a lifeline. The one thing guiding her through life, as painful and utterly inevitable to end in failure as it is.

Her purpose — the reason she’s born, the root for her existence. It’s nothing so easy to give up, not by herself.

‘Might as well just die here… and have it be over with.’

The only option to escape her destiny lies with Morgan. It’s up to the Winter Queen to rid herself of the Child of Prophecy, who’s long since given up on herself, on everything.

And yet, Morgan doesn’t end Artoria’s life.

It’s so frustrating. Artoria is ready for this, wishes for her own death even — and yet, Morgan refuses to do what she should do.

Rejecting duty comes so easy to Morgan, when Artoria can’t even bear the mere thought of truly rejecting her own beyond complaints. Perhaps it takes a gaze as dulled and devoid of attachment as Morgan’s to make such decisions.

“I see,” Morgan says, a stranger to Artoria’s inner turmoil. “In that case, I will treat you as a prisoner for now.”

Morgan’s hand reaches out, to which Artoria instinctively winces. Her eyes are closed shut as she expects her longed for yet feared demise, when Morgan’s fingertips just barely graze her neck. They feel soft and gentle; the touch elicits goosebumps on Artoria’s skin.

When Morgan removes her hand, Artoria finds a collar around her neck — the wicked queen’s magecraft, Artoria can feel that much. This collar is powerful, that is clear, though Artoria cannot tell what it may be capable of.

“This will be your chamber. You are not to step into the halls on your own,” Morgan explains, truly treating Artoria as a prisoner. She looks toward a small wooden door. “That door leads to a moderate bathroom.”

Morgan herself makes her way to the other, bigger door, the one leading out of this room and into the halls of Camelot. An outside space prohibited for Artoria to roam.

“Nothing good will come from being the ‘Child of Prophecy’, Artoria of Tintagel,” Morgan says melancholically before she opens the door through which she leaves.

The first time she has called Artoria by name rather than title, which sounds disgustingly wrong coming from Morgan — far too intimate.

Once alone, Artoria’s hands immediately reach up to feel the collar — it’s not fully solid, made of what feels like condensed mana. It feels connected to Artoria’s body directly, fitting like another layer of skin. Around three centimeters in width, half a thumb thick.

It’s entirely unobstructive to the point that Artoria wouldn’t feel its presence if she didn’t concentrate on it, which only makes it scarier. Too easy to forget, while unaware of its capabilities. That’s a hidden danger, a threat that can’t be fully assessed.

A collar made of mana like this can’t be removed without the use of expert magecraft, which far surpasses Artoria’s skills as a mage — Artoria cannot remove this collar on her own.

It serves as tangible proof of her new situation: a prisoner of Morgan.

No, rather than a prisoner, it makes Artoria a pet. The queen’s little pet, kept and taken care of, expected to be obedient. Being a prisoner would be less humiliating, less degrading.

Artoria isn’t even treated as a fairy, she’s seen as less.

The usual, all-too practiced smile creeps onto Artoria’s face at the realization of that, like it always shows when Artoria is faced with ruthless sides of life that she cannot do anything about.

A smile that isn’t genuine; a force of habit that’s been cultivated for two decades. It’s a mask that exists for the sole purpose of making pain easier to bear.

‘Nothing changed, huh…?’

In Tintagel, Artoria has been treated as livestock. In Camelot, she’s treated as a pet. Though the surroundings are more luxurious now than anything Artoria has ever known — or dreamed of — the fact remains that she is at the mercy of others who see her as beneath them.

Not a single wish of hers is granted. Not even an end to her misery is permitted to Artoria.

“… what a joke,” Artoria mutters to herself.

A glance at her surroundings doesn’t lift her spirits. Spacious as this room is, it’s as cold as Morgan — barren and empty, meticulously clean. A sizeable, soft bed in the center, a dresser against one wall. Two bedside tables, one on each side of this too opulent bed.

It doesn’t feel like a prison chamber, though that’s exactly what it is for Artoria.

Artoria rids herself of the blanket and puts her feet on the cold floor, surprised to find herself barefooted. On the first step, Artoria trips and falls forward; her reaction is too slow to catch the fall.

“… ouch,” Artoria yelps. “What the heck?”

She sits up, rubbing her reddened chin in hopes that it wouldn’t bruise. A wet tear clings to her lower eyelid at the sudden, unexpected pain; at least Artoria hasn’t bitten her tongue on impact. Her other hand absentmindedly rubs over her thigh — a sensation she hardly feels.

“… ah.” Artoria realizes the reason she’s fallen immediately at the numb feeling.

Her limbs haven’t stopped being sore, every single muscle is screaming for — demanding! — a break that has never been granted to them. That hasn’t changed; it couldn’t have.

In Tintagel, where rest has never been worth a consideration, Artoria has always been able to push herself well beyond her limits. It’s easy when there’s no choice.

This doesn’t apply in Camelot, however.

With nothing immediate to do, nothing to focus on and force herself to take care of, Artoria’s body refuses to comply any longer. Warm tears start rolling down her cheeks; droplets fall down into Artoria’s lap, soaked up by the fabric of an unfamiliar plain white dress she’s wearing.

Artoria sniffles, rubbing at her eyes with her hands to try and stop the tears from welling up, from streaming down her face.

It doesn’t help. If anything, Artoria is making it worse. Her nose clogs up, following suit to aid in the ugly crying that has followed the breaking of the dam.

“Why… am I…” Artoria sobs pathetically, hating herself for a display even weaker than she usually shows. “I can’t stop…”

Her voice raises a pitch, like the whine of a kicked puppy that doesn’t understand why it’s made to hurt, what it did wrong to deserve that treatment.

Artoria pulls herself back up onto the bed and hides herself under the blanket, weeping as the tears wet the pillow she nuzzles into. The blanket covering her face helps feeling safe, feeling disconnected from the cruel world outside.

Just for a moment, Artoria wants to be alone. She wants to wallow in her misery; a chance to let out all the emotional turmoil held back for nearly two decades now that she’s already started.

‘I hate this… I hate it… I hate everything…’

Pathetic. Useless. If only Morgan would’ve ended her.

It doesn’t take too long for the fatigue to catch up after all the tension dissipates into tears and sobs, and combined with the physical exhaustion accumulated in Tintagel, Artoria is pulled into a deep, dreamless slumber.

It’s the longest sleep she’s ever gotten. Undisturbed, and peaceful — no work is waiting, no prophecy is lying around the corner.