Sitting upon her throne, the Lion King gripped the hilt of her holy sword now returned to her tightly between bloodied fingers. A trickle of red dribbled down her chin. She let it drip onto its golden blade, gazing down upon the world she created as it began to crumble before her.
"I see," she said, addressing the man responsible for defeating her.
Behind her, in the distance beyond the sea, a dark storm brewed. Blue lightning streaked across the sky, and her eyes flashed in unison.
"I finally recall…" she continued, finally looking upon him. Her voice trailed away as he, too, began to crumble.
Below them was a beast born of devastation. Far out in the dunes, the desert sands were devouring everything not originally of the world. Soon it would reach the gates of her kingdom, just as the sea and its waves came crashing in from the back. Once the two converged, what she had strove so hard to maintain would be gone in an instant. Her newly founded Camelot would fall, and, so, too, would her ideals.
"... That forest…"
That was to say, if they had not already been shattered by the man who throughout everything and despite the hardships he endured, still knelt at her feet. The man who had pierced her heart. A heart that had long since stopped beating, or so she had thought.
"That hill."
Rising from her throne, she started down the steps. Eyes still centered on the man the whole way, she held the holy sword at her side and truly saw him for who he was for the first time in centuries.
"So, you have wandered for time untold, to redress your regret. Well done."
The man who, even though forgotten himself, never forgot her. That tear-stained face of the one who fretted over her to the very end. Her last and finest, most loyal knight. No, not just a knight, but a friend. The friend who had challenged fate and won. Fought a god, and came out victorious. Her most dearest friend.
"Be proud, Bedivere," she said, a faint smile creeping onto her lips. "With this, you have, for certain, fulfilled your king's final command."
Bedivere looked up, beaming. "I… I..." Fresh tears welled in his eyes, and he wiped them away.
"On your feet." She bent forward, offering her hand to him.
He accepted, and—for but a moment—there they stood, the King and her Marshal once again.
Then, he disappeared forever, leaving behind the ragged mantle he’d carried on his long and weary journey, now finally ended. With his passing the memories of their time, once fragmented and scattered, surfaced in full. His final words seated themselves in her previously shattered mind as the Round Table was made whole again.
—Thank you, my King—
"Thank you, as well, my dearest friend," she said beneath her breath, watching the last of his essence float away into the sky as the small band who had given her much trouble made their presence known.
"Mr. Bedivere has passed. Confirmation of the holy sword's return," the girl she recognized as having fought by Bedivere's side earlier, said; the one she sensed Galahad to be joined with.
Even if it was only a part of him, it was still that same, undaunting purity from so long ago. The innocence all her Knights and she herself had lost, save for he, the boy who had touched the Holy Cup never to return.
"We have confirmed the collapse of the singularity," another said from a place unseen. Though, with her eyes, she could see him clearly.
Scrunched over his device, communicating through it to keep himself from potentially encountering that which he was blind to similar to she herself—of coming face to face with his past. It was squirming inside of him unbeknownst to those he kept company with.
Ignoring them, the Lion King stooped to pick up Bedivere's mantle. She looked at it in her palm. It was the last of him. Closing her hand around around it lovingly, it was the proof that nothing could last forever. Even so stubborn an ideal such as hers.
Once, there was a tower.
A great, golden pillar that reached straight into the heavens. It had poured light, white and pure.
With that tower, matched a spear.
A powerful, mighty spear that seemed almost alien in its function and design.
Together, they were the anchor of the world. She claimed them after the holy sword was lost and became a goddess, transcending the mortal plane into something that was absolute. Something righteous in its authority.
With the tower beneath her throne and the spear in her grasp, she’d done what she couldn’t back then as they shone with a light brighter than any star. More blinding than even her holy sword in all its splendor. So blinding that, perhaps, mesmerized by the beauty of it, enveloped in its rapture, even she’d lost sight of what truly mattered when she held that holy sword for the first time. Of who mattered. Truly, and deeply, mattered…
Of those she left behind. Those she forgotten. The many she pushed away, and the few she held close. Her thoughts drifted to them, the sacrifices she told herself would be justified in the end. That everything would be saved if she just used the tower to rule over them and the spear to keep them.
Now, the spear was broken and the holy sword hers again.
She remembered it.
The final battle, that hill. That forest where, at the end, nothing had been left. Nothing to be heard, nothing to be felt, nothing to be seen, only…
Only something to hold onto.
Something to hope for, to wish for, and, now, it was gone again.
The tower was no more. Her utopia was no more. Her reign was no more. Her Bedivere was no more. And the only thing she could do was wallow in the memories of it all. Of her triumphs and her failures. Her negligences. Her faults. Dwell on the evil she’d hidden from everyone, perhaps even herself, and, knowing now—seeing clearly for the first time—that what she’d tried to accomplish, what she almost succeeded in doing, was wrong.
She thought that if she assimilated and stored them, robbed them of their identities so that they may become a part of what she envisioned as the sole way to save them, that Solomon wouldn’t win. Though, by taking away what made humanity what it was, its very soul, she’d already given up. Admitted to defeat before the battle even really began, as Solomon wouldn't need to win—he already had.
All because of that light which had blinded her to the truth.
Just like when she’d been atop that hill.
Except, this time, she was completely, and utterly, alone.
There was nobody here to save her. No dear and loyal friend by her side anymore, to carry her from the field. She had only herself to count on, and honestly, bringing Bedivere's mantle around her neck, she wouldn’t have it any other way as though her knights would have followed her to the ends of the earth and back and might well as have it was time for she to be the one to save them. The opening battle might’ve ended, but, there was still a war left to fight.
Touching his mantle fondly, there was still hope.
Thinking of all he’d done for her, how could she forget even a single memory? There was no excuse for it. Becoming a being who had passed into godhood, how could she? How dare she?
And, just like that, a new ideal sprout forth from the ruins of the old. The new ideal that as long as she believed it so and never faltered from it, fate could be changed. It was the same one she abandoned along with him, and she closed her fist around her holy sword.
Never again would she either go, ever again.
This was a war only she could finish now.
Glaring at those who had accompanied him to his end, these were the ones… who…
"Oh, are you still up for more?" the one unseen to her asked, bringing her back to the present. "With the sword returned, you are no longer subject to the bindings of the holy lance. Even if you still have power left, isn't there no reason to fight us?"
After all, she was too stubborn for her own good. "There is no reason to let those who have defied the king to go free. I have the holy sword. You can hardly say that you have defeated me when I have yet to swing this even once."
"You can't be such a sore loser….!" another shouted, raising his fist.
He was that boy with the fiery passion in his eyes she had seen so often during these events that have now reached their end. Three strange red symbols on the back of his hand pulsated and, as he took a bold step toward her, two of them were fainted, like spilled blood dried and faded.
But, she was. "Yes. Even if you are the restorers of humanity's order, I will answer with all that I have once challenged. That is my pride as a king, except it seems like that will not happen this time." Glancing down at Camelot as nothing more than another mound in the sand, she ascended back up the steps. She would have to act quickly.
"She’s returning to her throne….! Is she not being returned to her era?!" the girl exclaimed.
"She is no Heroic Spirit. She wasn't summoned into this singularity! She is a Divine Spirit who came here of her own power! Without the holy lance, that's the end of her! The Lion King is going to meet her end here, so even if you were to come to meet a King Arthur armed with the holy lance, that will not be her!" the unseen one explained, voice rising as the dark storm from earlier came ever closer, signaling that end was near.
And that was something she couldn't allow.
"That's…. But then, what Mr. Bedivere had done…"
The Lion King scowled. "It was not in vain. As he had sought, I am released now. And I, too, despite being a mistake, was not in vain, because there is a truth only the me who has become the King of Storms can see."
"A truth only you can see…?"
"Yes. I attained the same field of vision as the King of Magecraft. I came to know his plans, and his end goal. The temple he inhabits does not exist in proper time. Only the Seventh Grail will show the way to him."
And she would be the one to claim it. Gritting her teeth, condemning the world she created to run away and hide, she would abolish her cowardice.
No longer would she think that something couldn't be done.
The unseen one started to inquire further, but a bolt of lightning from the heavens silenced him, crashing upon the ground and shattering the earth between them. His fellows backed way.
There was no time left.
As they began to disappear one by one, back to whence they came, she focused on their destination; pinpointed its location underneath the dying world she had so foolishly abandoned because she once thought it couldn't be done. The impossible that this small band had shown her was the opposite, and the ones who Bedivere entrusted the salvation of humanity to instead of her. A role she’d chosen to leave and would never do so again. She would be the one to defeat Solomon because that was what her dearest friend would’ve truly wanted.
She frowned. If only she h—
"... My King! Are you still well?!" Agravain, bloodied and injured, said. He stumbled into what remained of the throne room, panting and gasping for breath. Searching for her in the dark that was currently swallowing the room, he groped around before finally touching the first step below her throne. "The enemy forces… they will be here soon..."
And there he lay, an all but broken man, kept together by the iron willed devotion to his King, his single remaining eye gazing up at her in the growing gloom. Holding onto a dream, an ideal, that she herself no longer believed in.
Seeing him in such a state, her frown sunk further. Her sorrow deepened.
"Sir Agravain, are you not the one in need of more concern? Your limbs are broken, your body ripped open, and you have lost an eye. Have you fought against a strong—no, a hated enemy?"
"Indeed. Till the last that man had nonsensical strength, but… just this time, my tenacity has triumphed. Ah, forgive me for not having brought you a trophy of the battle. For even if it is but a corpse, I cannot allow you to see that man's head."
"I see. Come here, Sir Agravain. I will allow you to approach the throne. Though nothing can be done about those wounds, show me your hands. Some of the pain can be alleviated."
"No, I fear that is too much. There is... still too much to do. Even though, there is still so much…" Blood began to pour from his mouth, his injuries having finally taken their toll. "... I had planned to offer you the ideal kingdom, but… my plans have once more gone awry." He reached for her.
She rose from her throne, holy sword in hand. She didn’t want him to see him suffer any longer. "That is so. But it is not a sin. Overworking is your only flaw."
"No way. Compared to you, I am still…"
She grasped his hand, slippery with blood. "It is time to rest, Agravain."
"... My King… I…" He gave his last breath upon her shoulder.
And, the world finally vanishing into the abyss, the only remaining light from the pale blue glow of her divine eyes, for the first and last time, did she allow herself to cry.
"Bedivere…"
Granted the ability to see the World for what it was, had been, and might be, she would gladly trade them for the chance to right her own sins.
Her ultimate decision was made then, the deed done.
No longer would she be the Lion King or King of Storms, but simply... "Your mistake had meaning, and, I..." Just… "I had..." Arturia. "A purpose… that… I…" The King of Knights.
A light which would never burn out again.
Time seemed to pass without end.
Arturia could no longer see anything. The war she still had yet to wage was far from her reach now, and any hope of continuing where the battle with those at Bedivere’s side faded further and further away.
Looking down at the holy sword in her hands and her Marshal’s mantle now tied around its hilt, these two things proved she still existed, that her continued existence served a purpose even with the singularity being no more. If she waited long enough—held on for as long as she was able with the last of her remaining power—eventually, would it be worth the trouble.
Or so she kept telling herself.
So again she thought of the past to keep herself occupied, of Bedivere and those other knights who swore fealty to her. Raised her upon a pedestal as the ideal knight, as their King, and sorrowfully wondered for but a brief moment that if she had done differently, she would’ve wanted to be in their midst not as their king, but, a fellow knight. What the outcome might be and who would be worthy of the holy sword in her stead. She remembered her resolve on the day she’d pulled it from the stone.
Merlin told her that she’d become something inhuman, that she would be resented for her decision, that the path she chose to walk would only end in destruction. But, that day, many people had been smiling. The path she’d chosen by pulling the sword from the stone… she hadn’t believed it to be a mistake.
—Every miracle comes with a price. For yours, you will lose the thing most dear to you—
Left to wander in those memories forgotten, Arturia remembered a many great deal of things. Out of them all, the memories of Bedivere were those she cycled through the most. The memory of his saving her life during one of those first decisive battles to reunite Britannia, and the same battle where he’d lost the entirety of his right arm as consequence. Of his tending to her after long hours spent in court, sunrise and sunset, never leaving her unless dismissed forthwith—or, amusingly, whenever Guinevere requested his aid. Though, not even she could keep him for very long, as he always had to be by his King's side. Exceptions to this were few.
Feeling the shadow of a smile coming on, it dropped instead. Did she even have the right? Recalling again the first time she had laid eyes upon that timid boy who was later to become her Marshal, a frown set in.
Feminine-looking, scrawny, and scared of his own shadow, Bedivere had been a weakling unworthy of even the most forgiving of a king's affection, and, yet, she, despite this, made him the first of what was to be the Round Table.
At the time, fifteen years of age and just having pulled Caliburn from stone, so overwhelmed had she been, that when he approached her afterwards to pay respects she’d accepted his father's proposal without a second thought. Elated at the prospect of having her very own follower, no longer would she have to tag along behind Kay and Sir Ector and Merlin. As, though their adventures together had been filled with nothing but joy, now it was her turn to have someone accompany her. The first of many, and, unbeknownst to her ignorant mind, the only of those who would till the end of his days.
—My name is Bedivere, your Majesty. M-my King!—
He’d knelt clumsily, his head down, and, fidgeting as he was, eyes comically wide, and what she first perceived as a bushy white tail peeking just behind his back, she thought him to be a fawn. She even checked for one—a tail—not seeing a boy nor the eventual man who she’d chosen as her first and would become her second—but an animal.
—Bedivere, you said?—
—That's what he said. Or are you deaf, Artorius?—
—Quiet, you!—
How naïve she’d been, to let the opinions of others sway her own. Of fools no better than the enemies who constantly invaded their shores and coasts, pillaging and plundering and taking their lives away from them. Those kings, queens, lords, and ladies who from the very start had scoffed at the thought of her rightful place as heir to the throne and then criticized her first decision as King.
Cowards… the lot of them…
Not that her fifteen year old self could’ve helped their taint overriding her purity with their feeble-minded doubts. She might have been the one to pull sword from stone, but, was she indeed fit to rule, if her first choice from what they all had seen thus far was this sorry excuse for a knight? Nay, just a boy? No, a fawn?
—You may stand—
She said this afterward, only for him to grow pale, flubber something, and faint on the spot. He’d fallen back straight and stiff just like a fawn caught in torchlight, too.
—Oh! Ha! You were so ugly he fainted!—
—Shut up!—
Flushing red, she’d immediately crouched down beside him and felt his head. He was burning up. She chuckled at the memory. Just what she’d needed, for him to pass out from the heat at a time like that!
—Get Vivian! Someone! Fetch the Lady!—
Holding Bedivere's hand and wondering just what she had agreed upon, she looked up at his father, a knight who had once served Uther Pendragon and Vortigern before him. The man's grizzled gaze had never left his son.
—Allow my son to become an extension of your right-hand—
—That kid? Really? Of all those here, and that's your first pick?—
Again, how naïve. It was only until now that she understood Merlin's words after the ladies accompanying Vivian had carried him away.
—He will be your most steadfast companion, in both life and death—
Thus she wallowed in those memories of what was and never would be, still waiting for something to happen, keeping her holy sword and his mantle close for warmth in the darkness, wishing she could have done differently, and closed her eyes in the everlasting silence, thinking of him.
The boy he’d been, and the man he would come to be.
“... Water. We need water over here!”
“Yes, raise him like that! Gently now!”
“Kay, quit laughing, boy!”
Arturia opened her eyes to the sound of her foster-brother’s childish laughter, staring at Bedivere collapsed on the ground with a gaggle of ladies and Sir Ector tending to him. Thinking the event to simply be a recreation of her own memories by her desire to see him again, she went to touch his forehead as before, only to be pulled back.
“No, Griflet!”
She glanced back. Bedivere’s father had swiftly grabbed her forearm, keeping her from approaching her would-be Marshal any closer than those other lords, ladies, and knights in attendance. His grip was like iron.
“The King is…”
His deep, gravelly voice trailed away down the beaten and bloody path of nostalgia as his attention was solely focused on the events unfolding before him. She’d never seen the man so starstruck, so in awe, that he’d even loosened his grip.
“Look.”
She followed his unwavering gaze back to the center of the pavilion, and all the air left her lungs. Crouching down, with a hand to Bedivere’s cheek, was… it was... It was herself.
That… wasn’t possible.
She was Art——.
“Ah…”
Arturia cradled her head, feeling a headache coming on. She ignored it and raised it again, still trying to fully comprehend what she was seeing. Her eyes traveled from her own appearance to that of the young girl’s now addressing the crowd that everything was under control as Bedivere was being carried away by the ladies with Vivian at their front.
They were the exactly the same.
But… she was Ar——.
A large, heavy hand clasped her on the shoulder. “Are you not feeling well, either, Griflet?”
Bedivere’s father was looking down at her, those normally cold eyes and grim expression she’d known him to have showing a twinkle of concern.
“I…” Arturia opened her mouth to say something, but, no words came to her.
Her name wasn’t Griflet. It was A———.
She covered her mouth, nauseous. Fighting the sensation back, the headache resurfaced two-fold.
“Lucian! Escort your cousin to the Lady! Hurry now!”
A young boy with light, chestnut-colored hair came up then, taking her around the shoulder. “Come on, Griflet. Let’s get going!”
He led her out of the pavilion, and the last she saw within its flaps was Bedivere’s father kneeling before the King, same as h—
“Ah…!”
She bared her teeth from the pain like spikes exploding at the front of her mind. The headache was growing worse. She couldn’t…
Arturia collapsed in the grass, and heaved.
Hair falling into her vomit as she gagged on her hands and knees, vision fading, delirious and unable to feel any strength in her body to rise back to her feet, she noticed her hair color wasn’t truly blonde, but, brunette.
But, that made no sense.
She wasn’t Griflet.
She was ————.
She was…
