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Knight of the Heart Chapter 1 Part 1/2

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Fate is a rather fickle thing. All it takes is one minor change to alter the entire course of history. The claims that one might make that you cannot alter a river, no matter how many pebbles you toss into the roiling waters?

They could not be farther from the truth.

If anything, reality is more fickle and subject to change than anything else. Change the painting hanging in a room, and what might have been a pleasant night with a conversation piece could be reduced to a vicious argument that destroys a friendship.

Should that special someone opt to walk through the gardens instead of past a pair of men, and what would have been a quarrel over lovers instead remains a seemingly unbreakable bond.

Indeed, it’s like that saying;

For want of a nail, the shoe was lost.

For want of a shoe, the horse.

For want of a horse, the message.

For want of a message, the battle.

For want of a battle, the war.

Don’t believe me? Do you think that such changes are inconsequential, in the end?

Heheh… well, what do you say we make a change? A small, minor change… and see how “inconsequential” that change is.

Let’s say we give a minor travelling inconvenience to a certain woman…

 

 

 

The bitter chill of winter had already begun to set in.

She could see her breath in the cold evening air, steam fading into the ever-darkening grey of the sky above without so much as a trace. The wind ran through the dying trees like a mischievous child, its faint whispers accompanied only by the rustling leaves that danced low across the ground.

The first frosts had already come some weeks earlier, much earlier than what had been anticipated; the people of Britain had found their harvest being cut painfully short by the rapidly approaching winter, many of their remaining crops abruptly killed by the sudden snap of cold. It would be a hard year for the country, without a doubt.

It was almost a pity that the woman hadn’t opted to take advantage of it.

But no.

Winter was not one of the tools by which she would claim her desires.

The road, usually either thick with dust or caked in mud, was like cold stone – hard and brittle, whatever moisture that might have been present turned to ice within the earth. She grit her teeth as the wagon tossed and jostled, a normally smooth, if boring ride turned into a truly irritating test of her patience. If it hadn’t been for the fact that she had used up much of her stamina in a recent endeavour for materials, she’d be walking right now.

Huddling in her cloak, she did her best to ignore the cold and the constant bouncing of the wagon. If there was one thing that was beneficial about all this, it was that she was all but alone; not many people were willing to travel in this weather.

She only barely registered the slow creak of the wood before it was followed by an abrupt snap. She threw her arms out just in time to grab hold of the side of the wagon as it tipped, the seat beneath her rising; she felt pain jar up through her hips, hissing in pain.

“Ah, shite!” the voice came from the front of the wagon, the man directing it leaping down from his seat to the side.

The woman felt her eyes narrow as she stood, and descended, not making so much a sound as she moved. Not even the wood creaked under her footsteps, nor did she shift any dirt in her path.

This was an interruption she was not appreciating.

When she drew up beside the coach, it became clear what the issue was; one of the wagon’s wheels had collapsed under its own weight, the old wood broken into splinters.

“I knew I should have replaced that bloody wheel!” he cursed, then looked at the woman, “… I’m sorry, miss, but-”

“This isn’t something you can fix,” her tone was colder than the air around them.

He lowered his head, “I’m afraid so. We’re going to have to turn back – get some of the boys to come out here with horses to retrieve it later.”

“What about your horse?”

“Pardon?”

“Your horse. We can continue the journey on it.”

He shook his head, “No, miss. That horse hasn’t carried anyone for fifteen years. A draught horse, that one is – good for burden, but not fit for riding. Besides, I’ve no saddle.”

“We can make do,” she spoke, “This wouldn’t be the first time I’ve ridden bareback.”

“I’m sorry, miss,” he insisted, “But that isn’t an option. We’ll just have to turn back and continue in the morning,” he dug into his pocket, and took out several coins, counting through them, “I’ll even give you your coppers back – give you a ride back out as soon as me wagon’s fixed.”

Turn back?... no. That was out of the question. She needed to be back in her workshop by tonight. Tired as she was, walking wasn’t an option, especially not with the cold sapping even more of her strength. Night was already falling, and she was in no mood to deal with any wild beasts; they were less likely to attack a large wagon than a single small person (she’d already driven off all the bandits within miles of her home some time ago).

She glanced at the man beside her, who was holding out the coins she had given him earlier as payment for the ride. It wouldn’t take much to force him into compliance; minor hypnotism, or perhaps the threat of her dagger in his belly.

She glanced at the draught horse, then gave a low curse; the thing was large, far too big to comfortably ride even if they had a saddle. Riding, even as a passenger, took energy – energy she simply didn’t have at the moment.

But she could not, would not wait another day to return to her workshop. She couldn’t. She had to make it back tonight.

Finally, she looked at the wheel of the wagon, broken, rendering the entire contraption lopsided. Gritting her teeth, she knew she only had one option if she wanted to be home before the night was through.

Raising her hand, she reached deep, deep into the wellspring at her core; a wave of overwhelming heat flowed out and into her limbs, rendering the cold a moot point, at least for the moment. Then shadows began to dance along her fingertips, shadows where there should have been none… and they began to grow, thickening, darkening, and finally rising, giving way from insubstantial shade to a physical blackness, tendrils dancing in her hand like a flame.

She paid no heed to the bewildered coach, merely stepping forwards and tipping her hand and letting the shadows fall to the broken wheel. They immediately set to work, picking up every last splinter of wood and slowly forcing everything back into place; the wagon slowly rose with each piece set in place, until finally, it stood once more, solid as a rock.

The woman glanced back at the coach, “Now we can continue.”

“…you… you’re a… a…”

“What I am makes no difference.”

“You-you’re a Witch!”

“What of it?”

The coach had begun to back away, clearly terrified by the woman before him. He seemed about ready to sprint, but abruptly, shadows rose up from the ground and gripped him by the ankles. He tripped, fell, and was dragged back to the woman’s feet with all the effort of a child dragging around a toy duck on a string, unable to pull away out of a mix of fear, bewilderment, and simply being bound in place.

The woman leaned down, gripped his shirt by the collar, and glared into his eyes, a minor hypnotism spell immediately kicking in; slowly, the man began to calm, his eyes growing hazy as the memories of the last few minutes were eaten away by the spell. Before long, he seemed to be in a dreamlike state, awake, but senses clearly dulled.

Finally, she released him, and he fell back to the ground, the shadows gone. He groaned, “What… what happened?”

“We hit a rock, and you fell to the ground. I’ve been trying to wake you up for some time now.”

“Did I?” he frowned, but ultimately pulled himself to his feet, “Sounds like I owe you an apology. I don’t mean to hold you up at all, miss.”

“You can apologize by getting me as close to the old fortress as you can.”

“Ahright,” he made his way back to the wagon as the woman climbed back to her seat, “Why do you want to go there, anyways? Place hasn’t been lived in since the King’s siege of it all those years ago.”

“That’s none of your concern.”

“… I guess it ain’t.”

The rest of the journey proved uneventful for the woman…

 

 

 

It was so sudden - a flare of light where there was once only black sliding over black with the subtlety of a serpent - he barely had time to react as his wards were triggered so abruptly. To the unknown eye, it would appear that Ser Merlin had accidentally burnt himself or been struck aside the head by an unseen object. With a grimace, he tried to recover and was now struggling to regain his bearings.

The constant search for Morgana’s whereabouts had been a task imposed on him by the King, one that he had carried on dutifully and without complaint. Weeks had turned into months without success in finding the elusive Witch, so thorough she was in erasing her trail. Even for his abilities, Morgana had proven herself a troublesome foe to catch.

So why was she so suddenly giving her location away, using enough power that even a novice could notice her whereabouts?

A moment longer he needed to recover in full, then another to cast a much more subtle scrying spell over the location the Witch had cast her magic. Given the recklessness of the Witch’s spells, he suspected she would have been in conflict, either with beasts from the forest or perhaps one of the patrols still enduring in their duty in spite of the cold weather.

He was surprised to discover neither suspicion was the case. She had simply repaired a broken wheel on a carriage, then erased the memories from the driver to continue on her way away from the cities... but to where, he couldn’t determine yet.

A discovery like this was interesting to be sure, and one that he had been waiting for quite some time... but was it worth alerting the King now? Or would it be better to wait, discover where exactly the Witch was headed? Morgana wasn’t the kind to use her magic without justifiable cause. Repairing a wooden carriage was hardly cause for such a display of power.

Both options had their respective merits, as well as their drawbacks. What a conundrum...

There was also the matter of time to consider, both present and future. A simple rift in the timeline could easily tear apart a carefully crated story. If he rushed ahead unwisely, then years of preparation and watching over the land would be wasted because he too had been careless with magic.

It would not be the first time he had chosen to conceal his findings from his King. Nor would it be the last, assuming the timeline followed the path he had foreseen.

Another ward triggered, this time - thankfully - without nearly blinding him in the process. His attention was again drawn to watching over Morgana, who evidently decided her driver was still moving too slow in taking her further north... Just what was provoking her into such foolishness? Whatever she had in mind, she wanted to reach her destination with all possible speed, and was willing to take great and greater risks to counter the poor conditions of a rapidly approaching winter.

Perhaps it was for the best to report this development to the King after all. Morgana was not exactly being subtle with her magic at the moment. Without apparent reason from what he could tell. There had to be a objective they hadn’t thought of, else Morgana would not have been so easily snuffed out.

Besides, the search had been trying King Arthur’s patience, especially after several months without success. It would not do if another came to the King and reported something he had already learned about earlier.

He left his scrying spell active as he departed for the main hall. If Morgana reached her destination, he would be the one to report it. Perhaps a closer investigation with the help of his fellow Knights might shed light on why the realm’s most dangerous Witch was suddenly acting like a fool.

 

 

 

The room was dead silent.

Though not an uncommon occurrence, this day, the silence bore a heavy chill – a tension not unlike the cold of the night beyond the windows, the first snows of winter gently powdering the stone.

A total of twelve figures sat at the table – an ornately carved, perfect circle depicting images of battle and glory, a true masterpiece that could only be produced by the finest of craftsmen.

But that was hardly what they were paying heed to.

None of them made so much as a sound as they waited, the unease enough to drive a man mad. All they could do was glance at their King, and then to one another in concern, wondering exactly what could have caused him to call a meeting at this hour.

Finally, the door swung open, and a young man clad in white slipped in, humming a gentle tune as he carefully swung it shut with his foot, white hair cascading down his shoulders. Glancing about the room, he smiled, taking a step towards the table, “I take it that everyone is here?

“Everyone,” the King intoned, her voice as cold as ever.

“Good, good,” he glanced about. Gawain and Lancelot were as sharp as ever, like a lion and a panther sizing him up, ready to strike – and really, why shouldn’t they be, this early in the morning? He didn’t typically like being woken up early either. And there sat Tristan, eyes closed… for all his magic and clairvoyance, he could never tell when that man was awake and attentive or just asleep.

‘Back on track, Merlin,’ he coached himself, shaking free of his wandering thoughts, ‘Arturia brought you here for a reason.’

Ser Kay leaned forwards in his seat, the dark bags under his eyes matching his dark hair and sullen expression perfectly as he glared at the Court Mage, “Ser Merlin. If this has something to do with you, it had better be good.”

“Can’t I get a moment to enjoy the suspense? It isn’t often all of us are in the same room at the same time these days,” Merlin teased, lips splitting into a grin.

At this, he felt the chill in the room grow and focus, all the Knights’ expressions seeming to sharpen into the stares of particularly irritable wolves. Seems they weren’t in the mood for his particular brand of humour…

“Merlin,” the King’s voice ran out, erasing all the irritation from the room… as well as any sense of mirth the Mage might have had, “You told me you had something of great importance to report.”

He felt his expression turn into a pout, then he sighed, spinning his staff slightly, “As you wish. I was hoping to ease you all into this; it’s not exactly a weather report,” he gestured to the window for emphasis… then glanced outside, “Oh, hey, it’s snowing!”

“Merlin,” though the King’s tone had not changed even in the slightest, there was a slight hint of warning in it – a clear demand to get on with it.

He sighed again, returning his attention to the King, “I’ve finally managed to find Morgana.”

He wasn’t surprised when he was met with yet more silence – and once again, he couldn’t blame them. He didn’t pretend to understand any of them personally, but he did understand that Morgana was a heavy subject for everyone at the Round Table, for one reason or another. Merlin could see Gawain’s blue eyes being cast down towards the floor, obscured by his short blond locks his armoured hands clenching into fists with audible clicks… the man was likely thinking about the Green Knight – one of Morgana’s sickest attempts at damaging the Knights of the Round to date, twisting a man into a monster.

“… how did you manage this, after months of repeated failures, Ser Merlin?”

Ah, that would be Ser Palamedes. Merlin turned to look at the darker skinned Knight, his smile returning, “She made a rather foolish mistake earlier tonight. She used magic without preparing a proper ward to keep me from seeing it.”

The Knights all seemed to have questions they wanted to ask, but one by one, they turned their gazes to the King. For a long moment, Arturia remained silent, her fingers interlocked and expression blank. Finally, she stated, “I suppose the most important questions now are where she was and why she would use her magic so recklessly.”

Recognizing the statement for what it was, Merlin had to swallow the urge to offer a witty retort. All of the Knights had issues with their senses of humour, but Arturia was like a brick wall, and had been ever since her early days as a King; and right now, she was in even less of a mood for jokes than usual. Which was really saying something when you consider how humourless she was normally-

‘Again, Merlin. Get it together!’

He shrugged, his internal dialogue hidden from everyone present, “Earlier tonight, I saw her travelling along a road by wagon. The wagon had been damaged to the point where it was unable to continue – one of its wheels had basically been reduced to splinters.”

“… and what does that have to do with Morgana using her magic without wards?” it was Ser Percival that spoke this time, “Was she attacked?”

“See, that’s the strange part,” Merlin felt his expression grow more serious at this, “She used her magic to repair the wagon and made the coach forget everything he saw – all so she could continue her journey without delay.”

“… that seems like an extremely foolish move,” Ser Lancelot rubbed at his chin, dark eyes narrowed, “Using magic when she likely knows she’s being watched?”

“It could be a trap,” Ser Kay pointed out, “An attempt to draw one or more of us out. It wouldn’t be the first time.”

“I doubt it,” Ser Gareth seemed especially thoughtful, his youthful, exceptionally feminine face perfectly matching his youthful, exceptionally feminine voice, his eyes of blue and sandy blonde hair matching his older brother’s almost perfectly, braids aside.

 “And why is that, Ser Gareth?” This time it was Ser Gaheris.

“Because Morgana is a lot of things. Straightforward has never been one of them,” Gareth frowned, “Even when the bait was obvious, she’s never been so brazen as to use herself for something like this. This seems more like a mistake.”

“A very foolish mistake, at that,” Ser Tristan finally stated – so he was awake! His long red hair shifted as he raised his head, expression as unchanging as Arturia’s herself.

“I still don’t like it. I think it would be better to err on the side of caution,” Kay again. He’s certainly grown from the reckless little child Merlin once knew him to be – the difference was like night and day.

“Merlin. Your conclusion?” Arturia spoke once more, silencing the others.

The Mage frowned a bit more deeply at this – even he wasn’t entirely sure what was going on. If everything was in accordance with his clairvoyance, then this should be about the time when Morgana’s… project was undergoing its last bit of fine-tuning before the final gears of his prophecy began to turn. But if so…

“… to be honest, Arthur,” he began, using the petite woman’s given name rather than her true name – not everyone knew her true nature, after all, “I would say that this is an act of impatience. Something has Morgana on edge, enough to push her to move along on her journey rather than keeping to caution as she usually would.”

Merlin knew that would have the attention of every Knight present.

“Impatience…” the dark, sullen tone came from the figure clad in dark armour, his hair slicked back and his skin pale – Ser Agravain.

“Well, it will prove her undoing,” Gawain finally declared, eyes like steel, “We have an approximate location of where she is. If Merlin would be so kind as to direct us to where he found her, I can physically track her and do the rest. We can finally be rid of this Witch once and for all.”

“With all due respect, Ser Gawain, it would be foolish to act so rashly,” it was Lancelot that spoke this time, his dark eyes fixing Gawain with a stern stare, “We cannot forget that Morgana is a powerful Witch. Mistake or not, rushing in will only result in disaster. No doubt she has prepared defences for just such a miscalculation.”

“There is also something else to consider,” Ser Gaheris’ voice was quiet, his expression grave, in contrast to his brothers’ – Gawain’s fuming anger and Gareth’s silent pondering, “What would cause Morgana to abandon her sense of caution to begin with? As Ser Gareth has said, she is not one to be so straightforward. There may be more to this than we realize.”

“A greater threat at hand, great enough to frighten the Witch?” Palamedes asked.

“Perhaps.”

“Or,” Gawain interrupted, “Perhaps another one of her plans. Something bigger, more dangerous than what she’s done before – something she wants to ready and test as soon as possible,” he was truly itching to hunt her down.

“So on one hand,” Ser Bedivere started, “There’s a possibility we now have something worse than Morgana on our hands. On the other, there’s a possibility that she’s planning something big enough for her to abandon her normal habits. Either way, this isn’t something we can ignore.”

“In other words, we must act quickly,” the King intoned. Again, her voice failed to inflect any particular tone, but it still carried an authority like no other. It was a voice one obeyed on principle – not out of any sense of loyalty or affection (though among those present, those certainly existed), but simply because her presence was just that commanding. Her gaze never once left Merlin, “Do you have any idea where she might be going?”

“There are only a few locations around where I saw her that I can think of,” Merlin stated, “But given the road she was taking… I’d say the most likely candidate would be the abandoned fortress along the northern road.”

“Wasn’t that place a frequent hideout for bandits?” Gareth asked.

“It was. We cleared it out several times, but Morgana heavily opposed restoration efforts back when she was a member of King Urien’s Royal Court, and I don’t need to remind you how strong her influence among the Courts was back then. Eventually, the castle was abandoned altogether, and it became a haven for criminals to hide in. Reports concerning bandit activity came to an abrupt halt about six years ago, but we had more pressing issues at the time, so we never bothered to look into it,” Bedivere took a breath, eyes narrowing, “If Merlin is right, then it seems we’ve finally found out why the bandits disappeared… and why Morgana may have opposed restoring the castle as vehemently as she did.”

Merlin fixed his gaze on the King, “Your Majesty?”

Arturia closed her eyes, not so much as letting her breaths make any sound for a long few moments. Finally, she opened her eyes, “Ser Gawain. Ser Tristan. Ser Lancelot,” she glanced at each of them as she spoke their names, “I am leaving this task in your hands.  I want you to go to the fortress Merlin speaks of and investigate it – in disguise.

“You are not to wear your coats of arms. Your swords are to be carried in non-descript sheathes. And you yourselves will answer to different names along your journey should you happen across anyone else. If Morgana catches wind that three of the Round Table are approaching, she may flee, and this will all have been for nothing.”

“Your Majesty,” all three stood and bowed at the same time, their actions borderline simultaneous.

“Furthermore,” she looked up to her Court Mage, “You are to protect them on their journey, Ser Merlin. You are the only one here with any form of magical prowess, and the only person in Britain who can hope to match Morgana. Wards, disguises – anything you believe may be helpful in this endeavour.”

Merlin smiled, giving a somewhat lopsided bow, “As you wish, my King.”

She nodded, and then stood, “You will leave as soon as the four of you are rested and prepared. This meeting is dismissed.”

With that, each Knight stood, and filed out one by one, returning to their respective quarters. Merlin waited until the last one had left, leaving him alone with Arturia.

“Well… it seems things are about to get interesting.”

“Dangerous,” Arturia intoned, walking around the massive table to face him.

“Potato, potahto.”

“No, Merlin. There is a very distinct difference.”

He smiled, “I remember when you would have said that to me.”

She glanced at him, expression still cold, “I was a child, then. Now, I am older. Wiser.”

“And apparently have lost your ability to smile,” he smirked, “I know I told you your story would end in tragedy, but would it kill you to lighten up once in a while?”

Arturia didn’t give him an answer this time, instead turning on her heel and starting for the door.

He was about to call after her when he felt something in his head twinge.

It didn’t hurt, really. It was more like… a shift. A change in focus, like when the mind moves from one task to the next. He gave a slight grunt as he pressed a hand to his temple; what had just happened?

“Merlin?”

He glanced up again to see Arturia at the open door. Her expression remained cold as ever, but there was something beneath the monotone voice that he had not heard in a very long time; concern, “Are you alright?”

He smiled, “I’m fine, Arturia. Just… slight concerns with my magic, is all.”

“Will you be able to perform your duties?”

“I can do that much. Don’t start losing faith in me now,” he teased.

“… very well,” she stated, and pulled into the hall, closing the door behind her.

Merlin paused, then sighed, making the slow return to his own quarters. When he arrived, he shrugged out of his robes and sat on his cot, frowning. Something wasn’t right…

Closing his eyes, he activated his clairvoyance; the ability to see all of Humanity. The past, the present… the future…

The future.

He grit his teeth, trying to make sense of the muddled mess that was being presented to him. This… this didn’t make any sense. None of it did. The war that would see Camelot’s end, the war that would grind the Kingdom and its inhabitants into mere memory…

It was gone.

His eyes snapped open, a sudden shiver of dread running up his spine.

“Oh… horse shit,” he whispered, finally realizing what he’d done without ever intending to do so.

He’d changed the future.

He’d changed fate.

 

 

 

Morgana felt her teeth slate against each other in concentration as her mixture came to a boil, the acrid stench of rotting flesh wafting in and out of her nostrils. One of her many books was open beside her, though at the moment she paid it little heed; her utmost focus was on her current task, the fleshy vat before her continuing to boil, all but disintegrating everything that fell into its depths.

When the appropriate time had passed, she took a pair of tongs, and reached into the boiling acid, heedless of the sweltering heat that surrounded her arms, and slowly extracted her prize.

She couldn’t help but smile at the result – the gleaming object held firmly in her grasp, coated in a thin layer of bile, but nonetheless maintaining a beautifully polished surface.

A Dragon’s pearl. One of the very items used to infuse her dear sister with the strength of a Phantasmal Beast of the highest order, and normally very difficult to obtain; after all, in order to get your hands on the genuine article, you would have to slay a Dragon.

Morgana had essentially bypassed that step entirely with this creation; using the stomach of the Dragon Merlin had used to begin with, she had slaved over long hours to examine the process by which these nigh-priceless lacrima were created. Hundreds of thousands of ingredients used over years of experimentation had been lost… but it seemed that she was growing very close, if she hadn’t already succeeded.

Before she could move to set it down, however, the small sphere abruptly cracked.

She could never have moved fast enough to stop it. The cracks spread, one turning into two, then four, then eight; within seconds, there were dozens of cracks all running in different directions, and the pearl didn’t so much shatter as it did simply disintegrate, the pieces falling away into magically infused dust.

Joy and satisfaction turned to raw frustration, but however much she wanted to, Morgana did not rage or curse. She forced it down, only allowing it to manifest through a single click of her tongue, “Another failure…”

She let out a long, slow breath through her nostrils, sinking into a chair and rubbing at her temple. Her creation already had Dragon blood, that much Morgana was sure of; it had already proven her predictions correct by inheriting dear Arturia’s Magic Core.

But that wasn’t the problem.

The problem was the Dragon blood’s actual interaction between the magics used in the art of creation, as well as Morgana’s own blood.

Normally, humans and Dragons proved to be incompatible with one another. Coexistence had proved time and time again to be borderline impossible on nearly every level, from the sociological differences, to the psychology, from the biology, to the sheer difference in strength. Interaction between the two almost always ended in conflict, and by extension the deaths of hundreds, if not thousands of people.

And yet, it wasn’t impossible for proof of some twisted marriage of human and Dragon to emerge; that fool from the Burgundian Courts in the east some few decades ago somehow managed to attain nigh invincible battle prowess by bathing in the blood of a Dragon he slew, his skin like Dragon scales – nigh impossible to even scratch.

In dear Arturia’s case, Merlin had somehow gone even further, infusing her with Dragon’s blood and giving her all the magical strength of the world’s strongest Phantasmal Beasts. Indeed, on the battlefield in days long gone, the woman had often been compared to a Dragon in human form, impossible to so much as touch and striking down any and all who would oppose her, single-handedly breaking the spirits of twelve separate Kings through twelve consecutive wars, conquering Britain in one fell swoop.

The promised King indeed…

Morgana shook her head, forcing herself to return to the task at hand. She had assumed that because of the lineage, her creation would have inherited all of Arturia’s same traits. Of course, she hadn’t been wrong, but Morgana had nonetheless made a miscalculation that she was doing everything in her power to fix.

Put simply, the Dragon blood wasn’t properly mixing with Morgana’s fairy blood, or the increased magical potential of a homunculus.

Homunculi of any type, even the lowest of the low, still had incredible magical potential through their magic circuits; one of high quality made for combat could be expected to properly face an army and still come out victorious and no worse for wear, provided they were properly trained and equipped. Combining that with Morgana’s blood, fairy blood, would create something truly powerful – after all, it was fairies that made Excalibur and its sister swords, Caliburn, Arondight and Excalibur Galatine, and fairies were also capable of magic far beyond what could ever be expected of humans. Even those that didn’t learn magic still had plenty of magical energy to make up for it.

Dragon blood should have created something borderline unstoppable when combined with these aspects.

Instead, it was clashing – only slightly, for now, but as time went on, it would slowly grow worse. The combination of magics was simply too much for a mortal body of any type to handle.

In the end, Morgana supposed that she shouldn’t have been surprised; humans were fragile, after all. Surprising, certainly. Tenacious, most definitely. But fragile nonetheless – a result of their mortal coil.

That meant she needed to find a way for this body to withstand the incredible energies dwelling within it.

So far, the problem seemed to be rooted in the Dragon blood itself, the magic core’s constant magic production interfering with the extraneous (but still exceptionally high quality) magic circuits, slowly overflowing them with prana. It was similar to the result one could expect from trying to compensate for cracks in a massive dam by directing the water into small creeks or streams – the resulting flood would cause catastrophic damage no matter how slow it was.

She stood, and glanced back into the vat. Morgana had been trying to make a Dragon’s pearl in hopes of finding a way to regulate the prana overflow – using the pearl to create a runoff point, of sorts. In the meantime, Morgana had also slowed her creation’s aging down in hopes of buying the both of them a little bit more time to create a working system; the accelerated aging she had initially intended to implement would, at this stage, only worsen the problem. However, she’d been struggling to find any kind of success in actually making a pearl, and she’d just used her last ingredients in the attempt.

She’d have to leave to gather more.

Sighing, Morgana stepped away from the vat and over to where her creation lay, peacefully asleep. She looked so much like her father when Arturia was an infant; the resemblance was uncanny.

Then again, that was something Morgana had been hoping for when she began this venture.

Smiling, she leaned down, and gently whispered into the small homunculus’ ear.

“You’re going to be King someday.”

With that, she silently pulled away, and swept from the room to find her cloak. Within the hour, a dark shape was fighting against the wind across the grey sky, like a black meteor through the ever falling white.

Once upon a time, there was an heir to a mighty King, who adored her father greatly. Upon learning of her heritage, she tried to gain his acknowlegement... and was ultimately rejected. But... say one thing changed long before this could happen. Certainly, one small pebble couldn't change the entire flow of the river of time... right?

AU Collab with :iconbatomys2731:. If you're wondering why we are both posting the exact same thing, well, that's why.

Neither of us own TYPE-MOON. If we did, there's a LOT of stuff we'd fix and have localized.

You can find Part 2 of Chapter 1 here: jarl-of-the-north.deviantart.c…

You can find all the story chapters here: jarl-of-the-north.deviantart.c…
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