Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It all begins like this:

A cradle washes up onto the shore of a city whose skies drip with unending rain. Within it are countless gifts, riches from the depths of Paradise. But the most treasured of them all is the wailing babe inside. The crying creature is an envoy to this land. The fairies could have forsaken it. Taking the treasure and leaving the child would not be righteous, would not be forgivable. But it would be understandable. For the child brings with it a sentence for all fairies; the child will deliver an ending to all who dwell upon this land. 

So it would be understandable. But the fairies do no such thing. They accept the weight of their sin; they embrace the Fairy of Paradise as their own. The Rain Clan offers their warmth to the child under the ever cloudy skies of Orkney. 

That is when you are born. Not as a seed within Paradise, promised glory. But here, in Orkney, where you are held with the utmost tenderness. Here, you are loved for the first time. 

You, Morgan, will never forget these days.

In the years that come you are adorned with many other names. Princess. Sister. Daughter. They call you Viviane of the Rain Clan, as dear as their own flesh and blood. Even though your eyes can pierce all deception, there are no lies in their love. They do not long for wealth nor power. They do not hope for protection against the other clans. The truth behind it is simple. 

That these gentle days might be the foundation of your strength. That, even should this warmth fade… its memory would remain.

For that, you give them your everything. Paradise is nothing in comparison. Returning to the sea of stars is a dream that withers on the vine. Not for the sake of what is righteous, but instead this Britain turned lost, you dream of a world that won’t ever end for them. Humans and faeries living side by side, the clans residing upon an expansive land with room for all. A utopia where no Calamities rise. You dream of a fairytale kingdom where everyone might find happiness. 

You will fight, but not to repair a mistaken history. Not to provide redemption for the faeries. But just to reward them—your family. If you could be a savior only for them, that would be enough. 

That is what you hold onto, until the day you dream of a queen without a throne. Inheritor of the island’s mysteries. Chosen by the very earth beneath her feet, by its rivers and streams. She is the anointed one, crowned in a dying age. Yet she is the heir of a land that will not have her. For that is the cruelest joke of all. Though she is, by blood and spirit, its rightful ruler. Though all the world screams that this is her home. There are those that conspire against her, men who raise their blades against the very thought of it, demons who play with her trust as they wait to betray her.

But the worst of all is the dragon-child. A mere pawn, raised up to oppose her, armed with a blade and false prophecies. That one above all others the witch—witch she is and must be, for they will never let her rule—hates the most. 

Because it calls itself king. It sits itself upon her throne though her claim is greater and beyond question. Yet she is the pretender.

Because its blood is fire, but it rules a land of men. It hunts the beasts beyond the power of humanity and takes the lives of its kin. The world, her world, where beings of magic and wonder dwell shrinks day by day under its reign.

Because just by existing, it robs her of her very reason for living. 

These are the things she entrusts to you: knowledge of the arcane deeper than you could ever dream of. The names of enemies who will never realize how you came to know of them and their designs. Foresight into your struggles, into the trials to come, into your undeniable failure. 

But more than anything, she leaves these feelings to you. That rage, that bitterness, that sadness. Of a Britain reduced to a handful of scattered lives, rotting away quietly, doomed to failure. A land that had become nothing; a land that had left her with nothing. That torrent of emotions refines into a single sentence, ringing with the utmost clarity in your mind. 

Do not let them take your home from you.

Those are the words she died to tell you, that she sacrificed herself to send to you. The only guiding light in her life. So you, Morgan, entomb them in your heart. 

If only those feelings alone were enough. But you are young. You are inexperienced. Worst of all, you are weak. The Fairy of Paradise is a being of ill omen. She threatens the authority of the Clan Heads. No, more than that, she threatens everything in this world. The love you’ve received in Orkney is a miracle for a reason.

The world asks for your death, oh savior. You are not strong enough to deny it. But though they do not have the power, the Rain Clan offers a substitute. Though the Clans ask for you, they do not know you by name. So the Rain Clan gives them a princess of Orkney instead. A princess just as you are, the only other, royal by blood rather than adoption. A girl who you call sister gives her life in your stead. But that will never be the end of it.

For sheltering you, Orkney will burn. The Clans will believe any chance of your survival is lost in its ashes. In another world, it was certainly your end. But this time you flee, wrapped in magecraft that should have been beyond you, bearing a false name.

This is the beginning of your tale, Aesc. But you should have always known how it would end. From the start, you’ve failed to protect what is most important.

You run, escaping Fang, Wind, Wing, and Earth. But what brings you to a stop is no fairy or human, not even  mors. A chill sweeps through the land, and for the first time in your life the rain ceases. That alone robs your limbs of their strength. The skies grow cold. You can see your breath clearly, a mist rising with every exhalation. What falls then is utterly pure. A flurry of white stretches out, as if to cover all sins. 

But you can feel it lingering in the snow. Sorrow tinges every snowflake, regret lingers on each and every one. Grief overflows, melting on your face and rolling down your cheeks. But more than that… 

I’m sorry.

I’m sorry that this happened to us. I’m sorry that this happened to you. 

I’m sorry that you have to go on alone, beloved princess.

You, Viviane, feel their apology in the cold. You hear it in the wind. And you almost cannot bear it. For why is it in this world, only those who have done no wrong apologize for its sins? Why is it that the guilty go on without retribution? Why is it the sinners you are here to save and not your own family?

It is too much to endure. So you reach into yourself, Morgan. You grasp that unyielding, frozen will, a chill so different from the one surrounding you. Because you cannot take another step further. If you cannot quell this anger, you will not be able to save anything. And you must, Aesc. It is the very reason why you were born; it is why everyone died. 

Your first step is so terribly heavy. But nevertheless, one foot after the other, you leave Viviane behind. The Rain Witch who dreamed of an ideal kingdom rests here forever with her family.

You move on, oh Avalon le Fae.

Chapter Text

You hear the tolling of the bells.

“How long can you keep this up?” the devil asks you. His words are not cruel. Barbed, yes, but not cruel. At least not intentionally. You do not think he is capable of such a thing. Only people are, and he is a monster. 

This is a nightmare you’ve had for years now. Ever since you first rang the six bells the first time, hoping against your own sense that it would matter. For each of the Six Clan’s founders had taken on a form of repentance. Their very bodies became temples to absolution, ringing out in apology across all of Britain with a chant. It stirred the hearts of fairies; it filled them with nostalgia and sorrow all at once. For the first time since you raised your spear to admonish Britain, to guide it to the rightful path, you felt hope. After all, you had seen it. 

Within their hearts all fairies feared this land, trembling at the Calamities. Within their hearts all fairies longed for salvation, to be free of the burden of sin. Even if it is not in the way Paradise wished, surely this would serve as the foundation for a better world. 

Now you understand. For fairies, redemption is little more than a toy. They pick it up, play with it, and it soothes their anxieties for a time. But rather than commit to action, they are content to toss it away and forget once it is no longer convenient. The ringing of the bells is little more than a short-lived burst of their attention. They have forgotten it before, and they will forget again. 

But in its own way, that alone is a miracle. Even entertaining for a time that they had done wrong, such an occasion is rare. It is easier to deny any wrongdoing at all. It is easier to hurl barbed words and swing blades at the one who brings such discomfort. It is easier to never think of the state of the world nor their own culpability in it. Despite once being born from the planet’s innermost depths, they no longer see themselves as one with it.

So they continue to suffer. So you continue to suffer. For you are the witch who comes from the north, stranger to the Six Clans, warding off Calamities and punishing fairies alike with spear and staff in hand, feared and despised. 

That is sufficient. If this world is to be saved, there is no need to be loved by the fairies. They should expect nothing more than that after what they have done. 

You can only run. 

For though you have warded Britain against devastation many times, your presence will never be tolerated. You are not like the fairies, born of this land, and so they fear you. You are of Paradise, the Clan Heads know its condemnation when you raise your weapon, so they despise you. When the dust settles, they bare their fangs and raise their arms against you. It has never truly been a surprise. The hearts of all beings are bared to you, after all. Their deceit is obvious in all its ugliness. 

Always, after the fighting finally subsides, you escape. You find a place distant from all fairies and place yourself into slumber, allowing time to wipe the board clean again. You suppose you have always been running, ever since Orkney. You’ve never stopped. 

At least, in your dreams there may have been rest. Even if you have only had one dream for the longest time. In it, all the illusions of the world are laid bare. 

There is only the storm. Endlessly dark, bitterly cold, so much so that you clutch the haft of your spear so tightly it splinters in your grip. But more than that. It is loud, unbearably loud. A torrent of voices, of hearts unmasked in all their selfishness and cruelty. The jeering crowd that called for your head, that burned your home, that chases you from every place you linger. Whether human or fairy, the people of Britain always seek to cast you out, Morgan. 

Yet above all of that, a single star shines. So you go on, Aesc. Even if you cannot see a way forward in this darkness. For the sake of that single thing you cannot betray. That is how this dream always ended. 

But now there is a devil. He is a charming creature, wearing a smile and providing sagely advice. Staff in hand, eyes which can see both present and future, and accompanied by the ever-blooming parade of flowers at his feet. This cascade of petals can even consume the storm, leaving only serenity in their wake. All this, only to ask a simple question. How long can you go on doing this, Avalon le Fae? 

You almost prefer the storm. 

Still, it is a reprieve. There is a voice out there that does not speak at you with hostility or poorly concealed contempt. It is a voice that you can silence whenever you so please, unlike those in reality. For if the devil’s forked tongue grows too clever for his own good, you may strike him down, even if it is a dream. Certainly, he will return. But watching him collapse into a puddle of his own blood is a balm to your soul, no matter how much of a nightmare he is. 

Today’s question is the same as ever. But as always, you humor the words of Merlin. Because you remember…

You remember Nimue, who once possessed everything. A being born from the planet, eternal and beautiful, beloved by the world and in love with it in turn. That which was of Morgan, unbound by the petty limits of humanity or even the land itself. Yet she was an existence constrained by her very nature, one with the laws of the planet despite possessing her own will.

She resided within a pool of pristine water, virtuous and pure. Already she held all the power she would ever have, a terminal of the planet not unlike a deity. Nimue could remain in such a state forever, unbothered by the world beyond or the passing of time.

But a visitor came to her lake. A charming monster, adorned with flowers, speaking of things to come. He told her a pivotal moment in this world’s history, one which will require nothing less than the breath of the planet itself. In this world, only she held the authority to bestow such an honor, and if she felt such necessity she would carry it out regardless. Yet the Lady of the Lake had long been lonely, distant in the eternity of her domain. 

So despite the meaninglessness of such a statement, she asked the monster what he would do for such a request. In return the man bowed deep, offering his instruction in magecraft to the fairy, a being who could snuff out mortal spells like flickering candles. 

Nimue laughed at the audaciousness of it, at the frivolity of it. She laughed in disbelief at herself, for how drawn she was to such an opportunity nonetheless. 

“You are a hollow man, Merlin Ambrosius,” she whispered to the incubus who felt nothing for anyone at all, who could not understand beauty or ugliness. For her eyes were as your eyes, the true sight of the fae which could pierce all deceptions. Nimue looked into his heart and saw nothing at all, an emptiness eager to be filled by another meal. But for the Lady of the Lake, estranged from the world by her purpose, his presence and distance from mankind was enough. She became his student then.

So you supposed that some lingering attachment remains still. Enough that you still hear him out, despite the fact that he may only ever speak poison. You let him speak, even if he will only ever seek to deceive you. 

“You’ve done nearly everything that has been asked of you,” the mage says kindly. “The duty of the Avalon le Fae is to forge the Holy Sword. Once you return to Paradise, you can finally rest. Isn’t that what you really want?”

You have walked these lands for decades; you have been cursed and reviled. But despite that, even you are struck by the casual callousness of his words. Your grip on your spear slackens ever so slightly. A moment passes as you wordlessly swallow whatever words want to crawl out from your stomach. Pink flowers flutter through the air as Merlin grants you a beatific smile. 

It is something you have thought of before. You do not have a mortal’s lifespan. The handful of decades allotted to humans, the scant centuries a powerful fairy may endure. You will not expire of age. You may persevere for a thousand years, tens of thousands of years, as enduring as Paradise itself. You may go on doing this forever. 

You almost vomit at the thought. It disgusts you to your very core to consider doing this for eternity. The thought is more harrowing than any other. In comparison, a sleep everlasting almost seems deserving compared to these hibernations hidden from the world.

But you will not yield Britain to them. Not to Merlin’s designs. Not to the petty machinations of the fairies. Not to the endless curses of the Calamities. 

Only you understand the miracle that you have been given, the opportunity that has been bestowed upon you. Only you can understand the reason for her sacrifice. Here, in this world turned lost, is the only place where you, Morgan, can exist. It is the only place you can call home. If you allow others to chase you from here, your struggle would have been made meaningless. You would belong nowhere and return to nothing. 

You raise your spear and paint the pink petals a brilliant red. Merlin cannot fool you. There is a reason behind everything he does. He is aware this is your second chance; you do not believe his sight could have missed such a thing. The opportunity existed for him to reach out to that girl who knew nothing, to lead her out of Orkney, to mentor her throughout her pilgrimage, to guide her to the Site of Selection. But you know that without your other self’s intervention, you would be ash on the wind with the rest of the Rain Clan. Merlin did not act because it was convenient for his purposes, and he moves now because you have become something inconvenient. Certainly, it would make no difference for humanity’s future whether you resolved this possibility or it remained a withered branch, easy to prune. 

“There will be no King of Knights,” you declare to the devil’s corpse. “Britain is mine and mine alone. I will never relinquish it.”

With that, you awaken from your dream once more. The bells are insufficient. You will make no more pilgrimages. If you wish to right the wrongs of this world, you must do it from the roots. Snuffing out the flames of conflict between the Six Clans, addressing each Calamity before it can erupt in earnest, and making preparations for a firm rule over the land.

You expect nothing more from your efforts than what you have already received. The Clans will hear you out so long as you benefit them. Fairies will band together so long as a Calamity looms, ready to shed blood the moment a knife is no longer at their necks. 

Yet one day you turn around and realize you are no longer alone. 

First it is a knight of the Earth Clan, armored and imposing. There is a gruffness to him but no cruelty. During the first Great Calamity you had ever experienced, Ector, the Black Knight stood at your side against the Beast Glatisant. Though he had not the inherent resistance of the Fang Clan, he wrestled it with a body that could not die. The sickness of the mors would not claim his body, the injuries it left could not bring him to a halt. He held it at bay until your strike finally slayed the chimera; he stood before you as it dissolved into a flood of poison. Together, you butchered every mors that rose from that sickness until it was done. You expected nothing more after that, he had done more than enough. But he knelt and asked only two things: your name and to be your escort, as one who wished the best for this land. 

For what reason does he live with this deathless body of his? How can he go on, when his purpose demands he throw himself into conflict after conflict, when the battles of the fairies have become hopelessly meaningless? Even if only in a single way, he shares in your struggle. There is one who can empathize with you. 

Second is the small, pink figure full of life and violence, stubbornly loyal, fiercely brave, and utterly adorable. The Wing Clan had petitioned you to remove a menace plaguing them, an unrelentingly vicious fairy who would attack others without reason or care. A dextrous combatant who leveraged her small size and speed with an impaling needle-sword. Totorot was a menace, harassing her fellow fairies despite being able to dispatch mors with ease. With your spear in hand, you reprimanded her with the voices of Paradise itself.

She had been so shocked that she dropped her sword. Then she kicked you in the shin. A short, undignified brawl later and Totorot had unilaterally declared herself one of your escorts. 

For all that it seemed a whim, you must have impressed her. Felling villains, defending the weak, in all things Totorot speaks on your own behalf. No matter the setback, she seems to believe in your victory more than you do. “I’ll always be your ally, no matter what!” She said as much once, and no matter how the fairies continue to resist change she stands adorably steadfast. 

Third is a blue-haired youth, skilled in magecraft. Your mentor. One who, admittedly, had introduced himself into your life without much fanfare but with a great deal of suspicion. Grimr the Sage, sent to guide the Avalon le Fae to whatever conclusion she so wished. At first you thought him a patsy of Merlin, and you had little need for an instructor in magecraft. But bloodstained as you were, you could still see the truth for what it was. He spoke no lies, at least none he believed. And he asked you,

“Is magecraft something you just use to kill things?”

It is a question that still brings you pause now. Can the future you desire, that righteous kingdom, be brought about simply by destroying whatever displeases you? Perhaps you took it with mildly less humility than now. But you accepted his tutelage in magecraft nonetheless, and you will not feel particularly at fault when the boy in question delights in competitions of who can wield the most destructive magecraft. …It is fun, you will admit, to wield your power for your own entertainment. 

Fourth is rarely ever with you in person, and yet his support is never in question. Wryneck the Champion, Wryneck the Brave, Head of the Fang Clan, an A-Ray born of the planet itself. He raised his claws against you once, out of pride. The Six Clans needed no defender besides the Fang Clan; the Fairy of Paradise was an unnecessary existence. Another might have played politics, marshalling the faeries to hunt you with even greater fervor than ever before. You could have been prosecuted for millennia, hounded by a being whose lifespan was comparable to your own. But that was not his way. There was a simple indicator to determine whether you deserved to exist. The Lord of Fangs cared only for strength. He challenged you openly, blatantly. You and all who followed you, for to Wryneck lesser fairies were no more than motes of dust.

His defeat was nearly as surprising to you as it was to him. Even weakened by the Spear of Selection, chastised by Paradise, he fought with unrivaled ferocity. He struck with atavistic strength, every blow was devastation. Wryneck was a primal force akin to Queen Mab. He was no ordinary fairy to outwit and overcome. It was a single outrageous move, pushing your transportation magecraft to its fullest, that had you deliver the final kick to the base of his skull.

Only in the defeat did he approve of you. Lying in the grass, he gasped out his assent. “I will never support the mission of the Fairy of Paradise,” he began with a snarl, stubborn until the end. 

“But I respect your strength, Aesc.”

There was something in that, in the rejection of your origin but acknowledgement of your journey that brought a smile to your face. Now, you have as much support as the Fang Lord can provide without reprisal from the other Six Clans. When he can journey with you all, he argues with Totorot the most, and he looks at you with a fondness that even he does not understand. It is not a feeling you will ever reciprocate. Still, even the idea would have been impossibly comical to you at the start of things.

Yes, you look around and see that you are not alone. You have been blessed with irreplaceable comrades. Or rather… you have found those who would bless you, Aesc, with their love. It is a sensation you never believed you would feel after Orkney. 

When you act, they question you. They wonder after your reasons and methods. Your allies—your friends blunt the jagged edge of your bitterness. They remind you to be gentle. Some might have considered such affections to be shackles, restrictions in the path to creating an ideal kingdom. But you have grown fond of the ways in which they seek to find that place. Courageously, compassionately, you face the world as they might hope to reach that impossible place. 

It is only because of that, because of them, that the legend of Aesc the Savior begins at all. Because even if the fairies will forget your goodwill, even if they still turn against you, you act to save the least of them. Your spear wards them not simply against the Calamities but the oppression inflicted upon the lower ranked fairies, even upon humans. Rather than a witch from the World’s End, they know you as a savior. It is not a title your bear happily. But… you are glad that the name your mother gave you, the name that speaks to the wise and gentle world tree which protects all under its boughs, is not something to hate. 

But for all their goodness, for all they have alleviated your loneliness, you still have not succeeded. Any peace you weave is temporary, easily torn asunder. The world expands, uncountable corpses becoming soil, stone, and tree. Yet even then it barely seems enough to house the Six Clans. 

You still dream of the storm, the storm and the casual, honeyed words of the devil.

But while the former will never leave you, there is no need for you to suffer the latter. Not with the warmth of Totorot bundled up against you. Not when Ector watches at the edge of the clearing near Wryneck, quiet yet alert for any threats. Not as Grimr draws a bounded field tight around the camp, ensuring a quiet and restful night. It is not like before, when you slept by yourself, looked out only for yourself, and veiled yourself thickly with magecraft so that nothing could find you as you rested.

You are not alone. There is no need to humor the words of Merlin Ambrosius. His charming words and deceptions are no longer needed to fill the quietude that defined you in the beginning. 

This is the magecraft that will bind the devil:

Nimue loved him, yet it is by her own spell that he was cast forever into Avalon. It was no spat of jealousy or spurned affections that caused such a thing. The Lady of the Lake had eyes that could see through any with a glance. How could she feel such a thing, when she knew of his nature from the start? No, Nimue was no fool girl or angry lover. 

But they had a child, albeit one not of blood. This was the girl Merlin had raised and mentored, that he had burdened with the heart of a dragon and the curse of kingship. The girl that Nimue had bestowed Excalibur, Rhongomyniad, and Avalon, who she had blessed and watched over. Both had granted the girl much; both had burdened her with even more. But neither could intervene in truth. Such was the way of the world. Nimue could not overstep in her role as a representative of the planet, and Merlin did not have the heart for such manners in the first place.

So she took comfort in that. They were two beings, divorced yet intertwined with mankind’s destiny, anchored by the life of the girl made king. The child’s destiny was foretold; her kingdom was doomed to fall. That too was fine. It could not be opposed anymore than the setting of the sun. 

How is it that Merlin had earned such hatred? 

Because as that girl’s world burned, Nimue looked upon Merlin Ambrosius. From her lake she gleaned into his innermost self. It was not purposeful. She was a true fairy. It was as natural as breathing for her. But for once, she looked and did not see emptiness. This monster, who saw dreams and nightmares alike as mere food, held something more than mere momentary feelings within him. This devil, who appreciated the story of mankind’s happiness but not a single human, flickered with attachment. 

The resentment within Nimue burned more than any fire then. For she was a creature of the world, and she could not go against the way of things. The tide does not turn against the moon. The river shall not flow against its own current. Even to act by her own will would be a gross betrayal, an act of self-destruction.

Nimue, the Lady of the Lake, could do nothing for Artoria Pendragon. 

But Merlin could. He was not a bound existence, only an alien one. No law or rule would have prevented him from going to her aid. Perhaps it would have led to a worse world; perhaps he would have become something far more horrific. Yet still, she could not forgive his freedom. She could never forgive that he could choose as she could not but still did nothing. 

Nimue chased him to the depths of the world, even as her own nature screamed at her. She raised great walls of stone in the heart of all creation; she summoned forth a tower with the majesty to last until the end of the time and buried it all. What she left was a single gate proclaiming its prisoner.

Only those without sin may pass.

The devil walked into the trap, for he did not know himself. He was caught within the tower as unbothered as ever. But when he cast his all-seeing gaze unto the world, when he could finally feel the flicker of guilt buried in his chest, he knew sin. So the devil would be sealed away for eternity, only able to watch as the world moved on. A fitting fate for one who did not realize until the end that he might care at all.

Nimue was diminished then, for wielding such power by her own will. Never would she act as freely or as grandly as she did during that time. She could barely be there at the end to have the blade returned to her. She did not regret it.

For only twice had Nimue touched Artoria Pendragon. The first was for the sake of the planet, the fateful exchange as she pulled Excalibur from the lake and passed it into the king’s hands. But the second was when her lips pressed against the brow of her girl, cold and unmoving, as she took her to the depths of Avalon. The second was for her and her alone.

No, not once had Nimue ever regretted it. 

This is what she passes onto you, Aesc the Savior. The regret born from being of the planet, of following her mission to the end. The pain that sprouted from bearing a heart yet betraying it. The Lady of the Lake faithfully carried out her duty, unlike you, a traitor to Paradise. Unlike her, you will never return to the Inner Sea. But there is no judgement, for you are free, as she never was and could only long to be.

Do as you will, Avalon le Fae.

Nimue, the being closest to yourself of all Morgan’s selves, grants you only that. You know it to be both a blessing and a burden, for such is her nature. 

The Garden is a magnificent bounded field, meant to cage Merlin for all eternity. There is no need to spend your life when Nimue has already built it. You need only brick the windows and leave him in utter isolation, unable to speak a single word to another being. He can watch in silence for the rest of time. But as you do so, as you behold the gleaming tower from within your own mind and seal it shut, you can hear his voice.

“Welp, looks like the scary lady found me. This is all I can do for now.”

Nothing in this world can remedy Merlin’s insolence. You are sure that he knew you would come to do this, that he has prepared some sort of message and plot. It is of no concern. So long as you live, he will remain trapped forever. You should say nothing to him; you have already resolved yourself to be done with him and move on.

But as you complete the seal on the Garden, you look around at the dream Merlin had woven. As far as the eye can see are innumerable roads. Some are of dirt, some of stone, but all these roads lead to one place. Far in the distance is a gleaming castle with walls as white as chalk. It is a beautiful, unreachable place. This is the ideal kingdom, her kingdom, and within sat a throne. You… do not desire to be king or queen, but still your heart aches. For though there are countless roads, each and every one has been destroyed. Not to obstruct you. No, you stand without any road, wandering in the wilderness. 

The world would never allow you, Morgan, to reach this place. So she cursed it instead, sought its ruin, and would destroy all roads that would ever lead to it. What else was left to her?

“Why would you show me this?” you ask just before the Garden seals the devil away.

The voice of Merlin Ambrosius is as casual as ever when he responds. It is perhaps the one thing you can never stand about him. How amiably detached he is, a mere observer to all the happenings of the world. There is not even condemnation in his voice, only a single statement.

“The woman named Morgan was born to be this and nothing else.” 

A curse that denies all others what she cannot attain. A witch scorned, visiting that hatred upon everyone. 

It is your last warning, you know. You are still Aesc the Savior, though you are the inheritor of Morgan’s will. You may still go, ring the bells, and descend to the Site of Selection. There you may forge—no, become the Holy Sword itself. The culmination of all that you are, the totality of your experiences, refined into a blade that will save the world.

But it will not be your world. Excalibur will not be raised to save this deviation. 

So you cast aside such doubts. You will reject it all, and you will bring into existence an ideal kingdom by your own two hands. If Morgan could not reach those chalk-white walls, you will build it brick by brick here. 

Then you let go, descending into proper slumber. The storm is still there, ever raging. The star shines above, ever bright. But no longer do you hear the tolling of the bells. 

You wake up, and you greet everyone warmly with a smile.

Then you go on. You fight fairies for the sake of fairies. You fight fairies for the sake of humans. You even fight humans for the sake of both. The world expands with corpses, and still there is not enough space. You stamp out the fires of a dozen conflicts only for a hundred more to blaze forth from the sparks. 

Your spear runs wild, too full of your anger to properly admonish anyone, so you seal it away. Your eyes blur with the endless bloodshed, and you cannot see any meaning in discerning the true nature of the fairies. 

It is hopeless. In your heart, you fear it is truly hopeless. But you cannot abandon your course now. The only way this might all become meaningless is if you stop. Orkney would have burned for nothing. These hundreds of years— over a thousand years of struggle would have been for nothing. Your companions would have supported you, fought alongside you, hoped with you for nothing. 

Morgan would have crossed the gulf of time, destroying herself utterly, only for you to be left with nothing. Just as she had been. As Morgan always was.

You would rage at the unfairness of it all, but even anger has long guttered out. Hatred is exhausting. These ashes that remain, that you clutch to your chest, are hot enough to burn. Yet they will never become a fire, righteous or not. It is not something you think you are capable of any longer. Those almost painful extremes, they are too distant to feel. Perhaps that is what allows you to push forward.

Then, when your exhaustion has pierced you to your core, you find it. Hope. Not blind optimism but hope. The Knight of Londinium. A human finds himself on the nation’s stage, strong enough to face fairies, just and honorable enough to be respected by them as well as humans. Someone who looks upon all people as countrymen with the same cause.

You see in Uther the seed that may blossom into your ideal kingdom.

Maybe this is how Merlin had felt. Your chosen king is not a person, he is a mass of potential that may be carefully cultivated into such a thing. He is a structure that requires the proper foundation, the correct supports, and the long-sighted planning to endure any disasters that may come. It will never be a relationship of equals. He will rule, but it is the guidance of Aesc the Savior that will allow him to reach that point.

But your heart is not frozen. You know better than to think that you cannot care for others now, and Merlin has served as an example in his own right. If even he could be moved, you doubt that you will be unaffected.

Uther is earnest and kind. When you offer him the opportunity for kingship, he hesitates. He does not seek power over people, but he will accept the burden of responsibility for the sake of others. You school him in the history of the Six Clans, the politics which shaped the world as they are now, the differences of Mab and her King Clan, the nature of fairies, and even the fundamentals of magecraft and sacraments. He takes to it all with the expediency you expect from humans, beings whose lives are terribly short even by the standards of those from Panhuman History. You have only a few decades before Uther will need an heir, so he must be ready. 

The irony of it all does not escape you. There is no prophecy of a human king; there is no destiny awaiting him. Just as Merlin had, you have raised up someone who has no reason to exist for the sake of the world. Uther could have simply been a single human in this world’s history. Instead, you will make him a king. Britain’s first and greatest king, a king who exists outside the strict boundaries of the Six Clans, a king who will finally create a home where you may rest.

You know he will. With every word and act he makes his intentions clear. His unrelenting hope for this world cannot be disguised; his undeniable love for this world cannot be disregarded. Even in its imperfections.

These are the things he tells you of in a flowerfield outside of Salisbury:

A nation that does not care for the divisions between humans and fairies, which welcomes what both may do. Their Britain, never his but always theirs, will be a place where each person seeks to save one another. Together, everyone will strive towards a brighter future. Whether it is against the Calamities, internal strife, or some external threat Britain will face it all as one.

It is a kingdom that will have no need for any saviors. Even a legendary one, someone who has been striving for millennia, may happily place her staff to rest. 

He truly believes that he can achieve it. Uther does not think that it will be easy, or quick, but he has faith that he can change this land for the better. Within the hearts of fairies and humans alike, he sees the capacity to change and embrace one another. There is righteousness in this world, and even if there is not, then he will become it.

This is the king who will create your Camelot.

Uther holds a flower out to you, Aesc, and he asks you to believe in turn. Because he is not a fool. Anyone who has journeyed with you, who you have trusted for such a responsibility, would not be so blind. Of course he sees that you are tired, even if he can never fully understand why. You look around then. The skies are cloudless. The sun is bright. Yet you hear the pitter-patter of soft rain. And you think… you think…

He is so young. He is so unbearably young. A child entrusted with a great destiny, burdened with kingship, believing he can create a place that does not exist anywhere. You look at him, and you cannot help but wonder if you were ever so young. You must have been. Fairies of Paradise are sent into this world as babes, and they grow as humans do. Surely you must have sat in that rainy study in your youth, reading stories, enthralled by the fantasy of a utopia. You must have believed in a world where all could be happy, and you had no duties. But even so, you cannot recall it. You look at this boy you’ve mentored, the shadow of the rain witch alive in him, and you cannot remember. You have been this way for too long, Aesc.

Even with your ideal before your eyes, you cannot imagine ever being the girl who dreamed it again.

Still, you take the flower. It is obvious how little the gesture means to you, but Uther smiles regardless. He is not one to be dissuaded by such small setbacks. Just this small gesture is a step forward, as far as he is concerned. So you oblige him in turn. You offer him the smallest of smiles, in hope of a better world. The coronation approaches. Uther will be crowned in Londinium, be married to Mab, and a new age will begin.

But you are a fool, Aesc. You have always been a fool. How many times have you played out this farce? How many times have you done things the right way, told the right story, only for it to all rot in your hands? You have played the hero innumerable times, and they would have killed you every time. How could you expect anything less when you gave them a king? 

You had thought the extremes of emotion beyond you. But as Londinium turns to ashes around you, you find yourself full of tears. Anger and sorrow beyond words pour out from your eyes. You clutch Uther’s body tightly, the metal of his armor still cool, and you wish—

You have done this for so long. You have tried again and again. You have been beheaded, burned, drawn and quartered. If there is a way of death, the fairies have tried each and every one to end you. They have punished you in every way possible for the crime of saving them, of attempting to build a better world. But you have never stopped trying. If you could do that, if you could it for all this time, surely… surely Uther might stand. Surely poison would not be enough to end everything. 

He will stand, a shocked look on his face, and ask why you are crying. Totorot will nearly tackle you, holding onto you with a deathgrip and a pleading cry to feel better. Ector will take a step closer, offering you the stability of his presence. Grimr will be half caught off guard at your tears, but he will be the first to address whatever caused the problem. Wryneck will be furious, swearing vengeance, and yet too awkward to touch you all at once.

That is the way things should be. But you cannot look away from reality, Aesc. After all, you have seen this all before. You have wished to wake up in your room, to be greeted by your mother and sister, and open up a book to quietly read in your study. That wish will never be granted, and neither shall this one. Londinium burns before your eyes as Orkney once burned, and it becomes ash even in your memories.

This is the end of your tale, Aesc the Savior, and you know in your heart this simple truth: It could never have ended any other way than this. You should have known from the start.

After all, Morgan, you have always failed to protect what was most important.

Chapter Text

The Great Pit sits at the center of this world. Frighteningly deep, not a single fairy of this world truly knows its innermost reaches. But they are all afraid. A fear that is not imposed upon them but emanates out from their own hearts. Do not look, it says. So they fearfully turn their gaze from the apocalypse. 

Yet a city sits before those infinite depths. Gleaming Camelot, whose grand walls face the pit. Camelot, whose shining turrets point down into its depths. The first and last bastion against the end of all things. It is the place where the apocalypse shall reach and be told, “No further.” Yet it is not a place of misery or dread. Sorrow does not hang over its white halls. The air is filled with magic and laughter, and the fairies within know nothing of hunger, or pain, or suffering. All continues in blissful abundance.

It is all because of her majesty Morgan. Her majesty, who expands the borders of the Fairy Kingdom. She is undefeated, almighty, feared and respected by all. The Winter Queen reigns unchallenged, for within her heart is only one thing.

Her dreams are dead. Her hope is dead. All that remains is the will to rule. 

That is the secret of her invincibility. So long as she loves nothing more than her throne, this tyrant can never be usurped. Such is the fairytale she has woven. The cruel queen shall reign forevermore, never happily, but she will rule. It is all she has left. 

That is the queen’s fatal weakness. The moment she cares for anything besides herself, besides her rule, she will be undone. That is how she will die. For all her pretense, she still has a heart. 

But it is no surprise. It is how Viviane died, lying in the snow of Orkney. It is how Aesc died, burning in the flames of Londinium. It is how Morgan will die, torn apart piece by piece before the throne of Camelot. No matter the story she has tried to tell, it always ends the same. How could it end any differently? This has always been her fate.

She has always failed to protect what is most important.

But… this is not the story of how the Fairy Kingdom’s monarch comes to an end. It is not the story of how her heart learns to break one final time, when she had thought it lost. No, it is not even the story of the Avalon le Fae who fulfilled her duty, who acted to reward the life of that long lost savior.

This is the story of the spring that follows winter. 

You, Morgan, open your eyes to Camelot ablaze. Fairies and humans alike war in the streets. Mors-poisoned giants lumber forwards, crushing walls, disciplined by Mab’s heir. Of the Fairy Knights, your most powerful has fled, your most loyal has betrayed you, and your most loving is no use to you. Your court is filled with the panic of high ranking fairies, suddenly afraid of losing everything. They eye you hungrily, foolishly, hoping that driving a knife into your back might spare them. No, they could not be satisfied with merely retaining their lives. They hope to kill you, to keep their wealth, their status, and live as they have for years.

The Child of Prophecy charges towards your castle with the Foreign Magus. The foolish girl who blindly seeks her destiny, barely able to stand on her own two feet. An Avalon le Fae who has hung all six bells, who holds the right to challenge you, who bears no sin. Once more, Artoria rushes towards her destiny at the Site of Selection.

How tedious. 

You have spoiled the fairies, that they might even consider such a thing. The panic surrounding the capitol is fleeting. Once the armies are swept from the board, it will be repaired in short order. The Child of Prophecy has quested across all of Britain on her pilgrimage, and she has grown in might. It is a pilgrimage you have completed countless times yourself; the power she has accumulated is less than that in a single hand of yours. 

Everything before your eyes is a fleeting distraction compared to the magical energy amassed in your throne. Only Cernunnos concerns you, and even he is no match. If the dead god’s swollen carcass floats to the surface, you will finally be rid of it.

So why do this? Why confront the Avalon le Fae and her companions in this single form, when you could fall upon her as a dozen? Surely, you will not allow them to reach your throne regardless of the result? The answer is obvious. 

You wish to satisfy your curiosity. It is your right as queen to indulge in such a thing, for your whim and the law are one and the same. After all, you have given them every courtesy and advantage. They have been allowed to gallantly ride out against yourself, the sole evil of this world. They do not have to truly concern themselves with the nature of the fairies, and neither do they have to suffer the inevitability of betrayal. You have allowed them the gentle fantasy of a world in which all will be saved once you are defeated.

You may as well see what they truly amount to if pit against solely yourself. There is no need to ask what will happen if they face Morgan, High Queen of the Fairy Kingdom. That is a foregone conclusion. So you face them as Morgan, the witch. 

These are the voyagers who challenge your throne, the fools who would brave the storm:

There is the Avalon le Fae, the Child of Prophecy. Artoria, a foolish girl who chooses to take up arms against you instead of her destiny. 

There is the Foreign Magus, the Master of Chaldea. Ritsuka Fujimaru, an invader who has laid low five Lostbelts before you and conquered the Incineration of the King of Magecraft.

There is a knight, armed with the Round Table as her shield. There is a knight, bearing a gifted name, which only you have ever bestowed. But you do not recognize her—no, only vaguely do you know her. The faintest suggestion of a person which your mind shies away from. This girl is familiar and foreign all at once. You look into lavender eyes, and they are eyes that recognize you, that carry the resolve to fight you. But it is neither hatred nor obligation that pushes her onwards. You do not need the true sight of the fae to see it. After all, your eyes had once glimmered with the resolve to save every being living on this land as well.

This is not your Gawain, a name for the most loyal, meant to constrain her appetites. This is not your Lancelot, a name for the strongest, meant so her love could endure. This is not your Tristan, a name granted solely as a gift, meant to grant your daughter legitimacy in strength.

This is your Galahad, a name for the most perfect and pure of all knights, meant for one you can barely recall. It is an impossible name. Galahad is the knight who finds the Grail, who finds salvation. 

That is the light that has never reached you, Morgan. 

But you recognize your own handiwork. So even as they raise their weapons and you do yours, you dare to remember. You dismiss the warning from your instincts. You ignore what the result of such a thing will be. For if this girl bears the name of Galahad, if you cannot remember her, if this is the same girl that had been caught in your Water Mirror, then there is only one simple response.

You came here to indulge your curiosity. Even if you should disappear here as a result of knowing, you have no fear. You, Morgan, still exist upon that throne. So you will have this truth. 

Who is Mash Kyrielight to you?

You are 2000 years younger, Morgan, and you are still tired. You have long since given up on being anyone’s savior. Instead you place all your hopes on the Knight of Londinium, on your own handcrafted king. Only Ector understands. Only he has been with you since nearly the start. Though no one else would say as much, he acknowledges the simple truth. 

“If this doesn’t work, then nothing will,” he says. But what he means is, If this doesn’t work, please give up. You’ve done everything you could. You’ve given them everything you had.

But the fool in you wants to believe in hope. Even if she cannot think of why there is any more reason to hope now than before. So you do not think about what will happen if this does not work. You force your lips into a smile. You’re quite good at that from all the practice, after all. Then you push onwards. 

It is mere chance that the girl with lilac hair stumbles into you and Totorot. Oh, her arrival was no accident. The sheer potency of the transportation magecraft which brought her here, the precision, there are only a handful of things that could have achieved it. Perhaps only one person you know of could be responsible for it. You cannot tell why , but there is a reason for her place here. Even if there wasn’t, she is a potent warrior. You lose nothing from keeping her by your side. So you do. 

You show nothing on your face when she tells you her tale. Not even the smallest hint of emotion reveals itself when she mentions her place in the future. Of course, you make sure to gently explain why she must take greater care with her words from now on.

It takes everything you have to keep your composure. Because it’s so obvious. If the Winter Queen rules in your future, then everything is for naught. You do not know how or why, but you know that it is hopeless. Yet despite that, your heart aches. That cruel thing in your chest that, even now, thinks of your comrades and says, There is hope. She did not mean to send that girl. You can still change that future.

Aside from hope, you find something else to ground yourself in. You wrap your fingers around spite and hold firm, even as it cuts your fingers. She is sending these Calamities to punish you. You are sure of it. All of this suffering you go through, she sees it as no different than rapping your fingers with a wooden spoon. It is a reminder to give up on this foolishness, to abandon everything, and to take up the throne. How dare she? You hate this woman, Morgan, as much as she surely despises you. 

From that day on, Mash Kyrielight joins your companions. There are several things you quickly learn about her.

She is exactly as powerful as you anticipated, even by the standards of a high class fairy. She is easily a match for all the others who have fought alongside you. But despite that, Mash is an absurdly charitable creature. She advocates for any in need with an urgency that not even Totorot can match, and she will rush in fearlessly to provide that same aid. Still, she does not act recklessly. Perhaps too selflessly for her own good, yes, though it is never to an extent that it endangers anyone. But there is something else.

Mash is always watching you. You can feel the weight of her gaze on your back whenever you move forward, and in the midst of any conflict she is always there when a blow might strike you. You think… she is someone used to having a person to protect. So you do not consider it much.

Yes, you do not think of it much at all. There is no reason for you to hold any strong attachment to her. Mash is a voyager from the future, one who you will return to the time which she came from. It is only fair after the recklessness of the Winter Queen sent her here in the first place. There is no point in pretending at a deep friendship or trust.

But you fall in love.

You will not lie and pretend it is for any noble reason. No, you are surely not someone with such a nature. It is only that…

One day, Mash plants her shield in the ground before you. She announces that impossible place, their homeland, where all pains and hatreds are healed. Then before your eyes they rise up. Those imposing, perfect walls white as snow. The city that those alternate memories showed you, that Merlin’s dream placed before you, she builds it brick by brick before your eyes. It is the place the witch could never claim; it is the city she could only curse.

Yet right now, it is before your eyes. You do not stand as an interloper or invader. It is impossible. It is so impossible that tears nearly well up in your eyes. But right now, Camelot is real. Its walls of chalk rise not to repel you but to safeguard you. In this perfect moment, you have arrived at the place you have always sought.

You, Morgan, have attained the ideal kingdom you could never reach. 

What else could you call what you feel except love? This possessiveness, which scorches your chest, brings warmth to your cold body. This longing, which curls its way from the anxious pit of your stomach to your grasping fingers, gives you strength. Not until now have you ever desired another person even half as much as you did your goal. Yet here, they are one and the same. 

There is no reason to let Mash return to where she came from. How could you? How could you ever let her go, when this miracle is in your hands? Mash may be the cornerstone of everything. She is a miracle the Winter Queen unexpectedly dropped into your lap.

But before you can decide on anything, Mash turns to look at you. Those white walls fade as she rushes back, wondering if everything is alright. Her eyes are open enough to say everything you could ever wish to know about her. Concern for you, the expectation you will know what to do next, and trust, you can see it all.  

Every thought on what you might do slips from your mind then. Just as always, you find it so hard to be unkind when others expect anything more of you.

Instead you tell her what you’ve seen. You take her hand and confess what you’ve noticed of her, not her strengths but her vulnerabilities. How relieved she is to be here; how eager she is to be in a fight as simple as this. Because no matter how hard the struggle in Britain is, the terms are obvious. This is a fight to save the world. Even if it does not wish to be saved, no one could argue against the righteousness of your cause. You tell her how you notice it, the apprehension and fondness she has in equal measure at the thought of returning to her time. The quiet anxiety at returning to the struggle she came from is clear to you.

You say that. You expose her with your soft, gentle words as she stares at you, as you reach for her hand. It’s easier like this. It is easier to be open if you spread her heart in your hands. 

You confess to her, not in a spirit of strength, but of shared weakness. The hopelessness of your struggle, the frayed connection between you and all other fairies, the longing for those white walls, the truth of what you desire, you confess it all. Those are the words you say to the only person as alien to this nation as yourself. You only wish for this kingdom so you may finally have a place to belong, to rest. There is no higher calling. Not anymore. 

It is crass manipulation to speak to her in such a way, to selectively open yourself up after baring her heart. But if it will keep her by your side until this journey ends, that is enough.

Her arms seize you then. She looks at you with concern as she pulls you close, pressing your body against hers in an embrace. “You don’t need to try and trick me, Aesc. I understand.”

You freeze in her arms for a moment. A denial naturally makes its way onto your lips, but as you look her in the eyes you swallow it. No, she may be right. For some reason, you are sure that Mash has once comforted someone who took the burden of saving the world upon themselves, whatever the reason. It is in the way she looks at you, pained by genuine empathy rather than empty sympathy.

Mash holds you, and she tells you the story of the girl who wished for the sky. You hear the tale of that artificial life, born to save the world, and to be discarded at the end. The girl that sat by her windowsill, dreaming of blue skies because she knew nothing else to hope for. But she was changed by the world she ventured out to. What she wished for in the end was not something distant. The girl only sought to protect the one who had stood beside her all this time, supporting her, defending her. She only wanted to repay those feelings. 

It’s for that same reason she declares, “I’ll protect you too.” You almost laugh. What have you done that makes you deserving of her protection? When have you ever acted for the sake of anyone but yourself in truth? But the earnestness in her eyes shames you. So you take her hand as she draws back, and she leads you forward.

An arbitrary collection of events that will never be recorded in the legend of Aesc the Savior:

She lets out an exasperated, fond sigh as Wryneck duels Mash for reasons that he will never admit. For all his ferocity, her defense cannot be overcome even by the Fang Lord. He entrusts her with the only thing he values more than lordship.

She watches with a smile as Mash and Totorot huddle together practicing their letters. It reminds her of how much even she can miss, even when it comes to the people closest to her. 

She covers her face with one hand, trying to hide her embarrassment as she holds her hand out to Ector. A wry look breaks his usual stoney expression as he applies an ointment and bandage to the cracked nail on her hand. He mentions offhandedly that it is not the most uncommon result when fairies with different physicalities pair together.

She speaks with Mab about the future to come, the marriage to Uther, and the kingdom that will arise. But the ruler of the King Clan dismisses all that with a wave of her hand. “Tell me everything,” Mab demands instead. When they are done, the future queen forces an armful of chocolates into her arms. Mab had been in love once, after all.

She kisses Mash Kyrielight.

All these things will disappear in the fog of history. No record of them will ever be made. But you, Morgan, will cherish them forever. 

It is cold in Orkney. The skies still weep in grief, in apology. But the savior they sought to guide is gone now. 

Uther is dead. Londinium is ashes. Of Aesc’s comrades, only the first Fairy Knight and Totorot remain. Everything is lost, and the efforts of 2000 years have been rendered meaningless. There is no longer any point in denying it. You no longer have the time or will to deal with every piddling Calamity that will arise, and neither do you care to coddle the fairies with delusions of peace or equality.

You, Morgan, will handle everything yourself.

But you will not leave anything necessary undone. There is one thing you had promised, though it would be easy to disregard. You say farewell to Totorot, and you give her advice she will surely not follow. Love makes people foolish, after all, and she is far braver than you. You do not dwell on it. After today, you cannot afford to care for those such as Totorot. The only thing you will ever love is that throne.

That is the reason you came here. Before you abandon everything, you will stand in the ashes of your home one last time. You pass by the scorched remains of that study you once spent days reading in, comforted by the sound of a gentle rain. Wherever you go, it seems that fire always follows. Perhaps that is also why you came home. The chill is almost welcoming now.

Though you are not entirely without warmth. Not yet. Not while Mash’s hand holds yours as you lead her to the top of the bell tower. There are words that come to mind as you walk. Countless arguments for why she should stay, ways to manipulate her to remain, all of these rise up from your heart. But you dismiss every last one of them. It would be meaningless. 

Mash loves Aesc, that stubborn and foolish savior. After today, that person will no longer exist. She cannot afford to exist. It would be a cruel thing to keep her, and even now you find it hard to be unkind when she is with you. 

At the top of the bell tower, overlooking the ashes of Orkney, you confess to her one last time. You tell her what you felt but always feared: that Aesc’s tale was always going to end in failure. You had… simply hoped for something more than this. That, even once, there might be a happy ending. Even if time would undo whatever you would finish. 

Mash is quiet for a moment. Then she looks over the railing at the ruins of the city below. She asks you about the things that used to be there, the people who used to live there. 

So you take a moment and you tell her the story of the Rain Clan. You tell her about the fairies who fled to this barren place in the north, seeking a land where they would not be in conflict with the other Six Clans. The head librarian who was always so eager to provide you another novel to read. The baker who never liked humans but kept them employed, curious to see whatever they could come up with. The captain of the guard who never approved of taking in the Fairy of Paradise, who guided you out of Orkney before it burned.

Your sister… your sister who played games with you, read to you, who helped raise you. She would jokingly say, when just a bit sick of how you were acting, that she would die for you but not do this or that. She was still smiling at the end, when it became true. 

Your mother who was kinder than anyone, who brought you into her family, who only thought the best of you and your destiny. She would only tell those gentle lies that all mothers tell to their children. “I will never leave you.”

There is a moment of silence then. Mash looks out at Orkney as you do, as if she can see it. As if in her mind she can breathe life back into these streets. Maybe she can, if what she has said about the places she has seen in the future are true. You are sure she has seen her fair sure of tragedy as well. 

“It sounds beautiful,” she says with eyes half-misted by unshed tears. You wait for a moment, willing for them to fall for reasons you cannot explain, before nodding. There is no way for you to word your relief when she cries. For a moment it feels like Viviane, Viviane who had stood under the falling snow but could not cry, had been saved somehow. 

That is the last bit of solace you will have now. You resolve yourself to offer Mash the first thing you ever promised her. Here she will stay, encased in unyielding ice. Your Galahad. Your knight of the utmost purity, who brought you salvation, who is fated to disappear. In this coffin, she will make a journey 2000 years into the future. 

You will not remember her. For if you do, everything you are will be lost. Such is the price of magecraft which toys with time, and you curse the Winter Queen for her meddling. 

But you leave that aside as well. You do not have the time for bitterness. With what time is left for you and Mash, you tell her everything she needs to hear before she makes this journey. You explain the courage she needs to accept the responsibility for the harm she will inevitably commit. The same responsibility that all living beings hold. And you want her to know—to know that…

Cowardice stills your tongue, for you know what awaits in her future. So instead you can offer a consolation prize, as pitiful as it may be, for you are sure she suspects as much in her heart. You will reveal your true name to her. That is what you resolve yourself towards, just before she speaks.

“Thank you so much for everything, Aesc! Even if you knew how things were going to turn out… I still think your journey did the name ‘savior’ justice!”

You pause for just a moment, caught off guard by the fierce resolution in her eyes. What did a savior mean to you? You did not ask for the title or its expectations. Not once had you asked to be burdened by that weight. Yet everyone had been content to foist it on you, then curse you for not living up to their own dreams of how you might be. 

Yes, that’s all true. But it’s not the only thing, is it? If you hadn’t been called that, you would not have made this far. Aesc the Savior was the one that had brought everyone together, wasn’t she?

You remember camping under the stars, a warm meal in your belly. Ector’s hammer clangs into the evening, ever busy. Wryneck and Totorot have gotten into another argument, the Fang Lord on equal footing in this shouting match with a tiny Wing Clan fairy. Grimnir and Uther both laugh at the spectacle they make of themselves, united in their amusement. Mash’s hand holds yours. 

You loved everyone. That is what the journey of the savior means to you, in the end.

You smile for a moment, red filling your cheeks. For a moment you are only Aesc. You are only the girl who sought an ideal kingdom, overcoming countless obstacles, and making unforgettable friends. You set forth on a journey doomed to fail, but it was not a meaningless one. How could it be, when she is still here to remember it? So you give her your answer, as Aesc the Savior.

“Well sure! We gave it all we had, didn't we?” 

You tell her your name then, and it does not feel cheap in the slightest. No, you want to ensure she has no doubts. There is no point in weighing her down with your feelings. For in the future, you, Morgan, are the one she must defeat. 

Then you entomb her in that coffin of ice. You could lie and keep her here forever. Surely, having her against you will only bring ruin. Do you wish for a future where she may threaten your rule? No, that is not what you fear. Can you allow a future where you unknowingly shed the blood of the only person you have ever loved like this?

Yes, you will. You will, for you still have a heart. How could you ever raise your hand against her as you are? Why would you be here, if not for that simple fact? You have taken the one thing too dear to lose, Morgan, and brought it to the farthest reaches. You brought her here, just to cast her away beyond your grasp. For that is what she wishes; for love has made you foolish. 

When you depart Orkney, you will bear the storm on your back. That unrelenting chill, those unforgiving curses, the fairies of the Six Clans will be dashed upon them like rocks. You will reap the harvest from the Tree of Fantasy and bring this world into being by your own hands. By your will, Britain will survive its next Great Calamity. Then you will rule, forever. You will build a kingdom solely for yourself.

And your heart will rest here, at the World’s End. 

How unlike you, Morgan, to be lost in thought in the midst of combat.

You clutch at the wound in your side, hot blood pouring from it. A moment of distraction? Or perhaps this is simply the inevitable result. It has been quite some time since you have suffered such an injury. Not since the Summer War, against Mab at her most primal and fearsome, have you been wounded so terribly. It was the closest you had ever come to death in combat until now. 

The pain is sharp, carried with every breath you take. But it is beneath your dignity to fall to your knees and show weakness. So you stand. 

These are the victors. The Master of Chaldea, hands trembling and fingers numb from exhaustion. The Avalon le Fae, somehow more shocked than anyone else that such a wound has been dealt to you. Fairy Knight Galahad, Mash Kyrielight , looks at you with a resolve that nearly obscures her pain.

Good. You will not see her purity tainted by shallow feelings. Gentle but firm, that is how she has always been. It would shame you both for her to falter here. 

But the others are still children. The foreign magus presses forward, ignorant to her origins, unaware of the design born from her own organization. As for the Fairy of Paradise, Artoria has still not resolved herself to see the end of her journey. Not in truth. 

Still, you are defeated. It is not your place to render judgement. As the victor’s due, you will provide this courtesy. So you grant Ritsuka Fujimaru a hint towards the questions she should have been asking ever since this conflict began. The Fairy of Paradise will receive nothing from you. The burden she carries, as ever, is for her alone. No other can ease it for her.

Only Mash remains, and what you have for her is not a matter of victory. Regardless of the result, you know her, and so you will vanish. The moment you recalled her, you would have granted her this much. Even if you had triumphed.

Your grip on your staff tightens as you release the pressure over your wound. You hold out your hand, stained in blood. 

“Attend to me, my Galahad.” 

The steel in her eyes softens, though she does not dismiss her shield. It is wise of her. You watch as she approaches you, each step accompanied by the sound of war all around Camelot, until she stands before you. She slams her shield into the ground, and it stands upright in the stone of your city. It is close enough to grab while still freeing both her hands. 

Then she takes your hand. Mash grows still at the feeling of your warm blood. For a moment, she cannot look away from the red staining your fingertips and palm. She caresses your palm, as if it might help. Or perhaps she is trying to refamiliarize herself with you, with how much you’ve changed. Those lavender eyes turn up to stare into yours, and her mouth moves without a single sound.

But you are in good humor, even as you suppress a wince. So you merely ask, “Am I so beautiful that you have no words left?” 

Her lips quirk upwards then despite herself. If it were any other situation, she may have even laughed. It is something Mab might have said, so long ago. It is a little shred of levity. But instead her eyes glance over towards the still dripping slash in your side, courtesy of one of the shadow Servants. “You’re hurt… High Queen Morgan.”

She trails off then. You both know what she truly means. They came here with the intention of defeating you, after all. You are here, before her. Now you will die. That is that. It is your fate as the loser, just as it was this entire world’s once. But she looks back at you expectantly. She anticipates it, that you have something more to say to her. Of course you do. She is yours, after all.

Your hand pulls back from hers. It rises up to her face, gently touching her cheek before tilting her head just a bit more upwards. 

Mash looks exactly as she always has. Her eyes bright, her expression pained but firm, a kindness underlying everything she is. You do not feel cold now. It is as if you are still there, standing at that bell tower, full of words yet unable to speak them. No, it is more than that. Once, you thought enduring forever a curse. Then you saw it as another cold necessity of your rule. But today, the endless years do not feel like scars. You feel young and soft, as if you might hear the pitter patter of rain outside your study any moment now. 

“I love you, Mash.”

She startles at your words. Perhaps because you had never said them before. It is clear that she expected something else, some secret that you would not have trusted to anyone else. After all—

“Why? You’ve never… you’ve never said anything more than you had to!” There is a sliver of panic behind that confusion. Still, she expects something more. Even as her face grows red, even as grief cracks through her resolve, she thinks there is something hidden in your words. It is your fault, you suppose, for never saying what is in your heart. You have always been poor at it. And of course she knows. She has always known. Your Galahad is perceptive, after all. But you do not have the time to waste. So you go on. 

“Those words were meant for you before you entered the coffin. It was time they reached you, even 2000 years overdue.” Or perhaps, they are just on time. 

What does spring feel like? You have almost forgotten. There is no such season for the Fairies of Paradise, and your rule is an eternal winter. Even those days in Orkney are distant from you, for only your oldest memories remain.

Spring is her lips on yours. It is the strength of her arms as she embraces you. It is the heat of her body, the only fire you will allow to warm you. 

You are only a woman, Morgan, sharing the last of your life with the one you love most. 

The rest will remain unwritten. Who can say what will become of the Winter Queen, alone on her desolate throne? What will Chaldea do, when she brings the full force of her strength upon them? What of that unseen actor, flitting through the Fairy Kingdom, spreading disaster? You cannot say.

You are Morgan and only Morgan. Not the Avalon le Fae. Not the princess of the Rain Clan. Not the legendary savior. Not even the High Queen. With Mash Kyrielight, you are yourself and only yourself. 

You depart the stage with dignity in defeat. You are loved. These are things the Winter Queen will never possess. This is an ending that belongs solely to you, the one who lives in this moment, the one who chooses to remember. The one who Mash will weep for, here and now. It is your victory, Morgan.

This is spring: a warmth that makes you forget winter’s bitterness.