Chapter Text
Britain was a land wracked by war.
After Vortigern struck down Uther Pendragon, his own brother and rightful king, chaos enveloped the countryside. Saxon pillagers, granted free reign to loot the lands of the usurper’s enemies, ravaged the people and country alike. Towns and cities burned, their inhabitants either butchered like animals or shackled and used to throw up forts to solidify the invaders' hold over the nation and store their plunder.
Doom hung over all who wished to live in peace, their only options to fight with sword in hand and risk death, or kneel and beg for mercy from the rapacious hordes and the inhuman creature who commanded their allegiance. Some knights and lords kept their territories safe for a time through strength of arms and courage of heart, but only for as long as the Saxons’ attention and numbers were elsewhere. As the years passed and their greed grew, more and more of these bastions fell, and the tide of chaos continued to devour all before it.
Eventually a measure of hope returned to the land. Caliburn, the sword of selection, was drawn from its stone by a youth who claimed descent from Uther Pendragon himself. Some knights flocked to join the new claimant to the throne of Britain. Others hung back, unsure if they should so openly defy Vortigern and risk the wrath of his Saxon pawns, or the even darker powers whispered of in hushed tales.
The so-called boy-king cared nothing for those knights. With sacred sword in hand and loyal followers at his side, they challenged the Saxon hordes. Roadside skirmishes became counter-raids, raids became battles, and battles became sieges, every clash a victory for the king prophesied by Merlin. Victory drew in more knights willing to pledge their loyalty, and the hopes of future peace grew from whispers to shouts and then to songs that foretold an age of prosperity for Britain that would never end.
But peace had not yet come. Saxons still roamed the land, raiding and pillaging everything they could find, and the dragon Vortigern still lurked in the blackened ruins of Londinium. Blood soaked the fields and valleys and the cost of the campaign against the seaborne raiders mounted every day.
Seven years of bloody war against the invaders have passed, and though the whispers of ‘boy-king’ have long since faded, some question if there will be a land left for the king to rule. Some even question if the victories won already are not enough. If peace with Vortigern might be the true victory, that driving his minions from the heartland is enough for now and that taking time to recover for future campaigns might be wiser than continued war. Some even dare whisper that Vortigern, wizened and bent by dark powers and long years, will soon die of old age, that patience would prove a better virtue than mere might.
But for now, none dare question the wisdom of the one who wields the sword of selection. The one foretold by the Sage of Flowers, hammer of the Saxons, heir to the throne of Britain by sacred providence and through strength of arms.
The one known across the length and breadth of the land as Arthur Pendragon.
Blood sprayed across the snow and the Saxon collapsed, hands clasped to his chest as he desperately tried to stay alive. Ragged gasps escaped his mouth, the sounds of a dying man not long for the world, and his body convulsed with every breath he tried to take. Steel flashed beneath the sun and a blood-stained sword buried itself in his back, its wielder driving it deep into the man’s chest. More blood spread across the snow and the man spasmed once more, breath slipping from his lungs along with his life.
Shaking fingers grasped the sword hilt and the blade slid from the fresh corpse. Bile rose in its wielders throat and she tried to clamp down on it. Clashing steel rang out through the forest, a reminder of the need to move quickly. Survival instincts took hold and she ran through the trees, sword still drawn and blood dripping into the snow.
“There, one of them’s running!”
Panic flooded through her veins and feet kicked up snow as she sprinted through the trees. Gnarled roots and barren branches blocked her path, scratching at her cloak and face, and her breath soon came in ragged gasps. Pain seared through her muscles as she pushed further into the ancient forest, her worn boots little protection against the cold.
“Surround him, he can’t go much deeper!”
More trees rose to block her path, their branches locked together in a twisted wall of vicious barbs and ancient spite. She cursed under her breath and darted to the side, hoping against hope there would be a gap she could slip through or somewhere she could hide. Shadows caught her eye, a patch of darkness in the blinding white snow, and before she could think it through, she threw herself inside the rotten tree husk.
“Spread out, he’s around here somewhere. Don’t let him get the drop on you.”
Damp, dead wood and insects shifted beneath her as she pressed herself deeper into the rotting tree cavity. Snow crunched beneath the feet of her pursuers, the sound drawing closer and closer, and she tried to press herself further into the darkness.
Breathe, in, out, in, out. Focus on breathing and staying quiet. Don’t end up like the dead man you murdered, loud and wheezing and bleeding in the snow.
A loud crunch filled the air, then silence. In the distance she could hear the sounds of continued pursuit. Of men shouting whilst trying to find her. But right outside there was just silence. Like her closest pursuer had vanished in a puff of smoke.
“I know you’re in there.”
She cursed herself for her ignorance and tightened her grip on the sword. Maybe she could still run, lash out at the man’s legs and cripple him enough to flee. That might work.
“Come out, I mean you no harm. You have my word that nothing will happen to you if you surrender peacefully. Please, lay down your sword, and no-one else has to die today.”
Everything she’d been taught told her it was a ruse, a trick, a way to get her to lower her guard and be struck down without risk. Running was still her best option to survive, her only option. If she didn’t run now then the others would come and find her. A surprise attack on the naïve fool was her best hope of escape.
And yet…there was something in his voice. Like he actually meant every word he said, even as strange as it sounded. She looked down at herself, at the ragged clothing and piecemeal cloak she had, the bloodstained sword and the old boots. Even if she did escape, she had nowhere to run to, no idea where she was. And no means of surviving on her own in the middle of a foreign land’s winter.
Steel thudded into the snow as she stepped out of the dead tree trunk, hands raised in surrender. Droplets of blood spread out from the fallen blade, and the man’s own sword slid back into its scabbard. The suit of armour hid most of his face, but his eyes at least looked honest and kind. All she could do now was hope he had the authority over his comrades to keep the promise he'd made.
“Thank you. Please, follow me back to our camp. My comrades might be suspicious at first, but please forgive them. These are dark and strange times for meeting new faces.”
She’d expected him to bind her hands, either with rope or her own cloak to prevent her from running again. But for some reason he just gestured back through the forest and waited for her to start walking. Briefly, the idea of running again flashed across her mind, but she tossed it aside. Even with his guard down, she doubted she could overpower or outrun him. And the cold or his companions would likely kill her even if she did.
Tired, beaten, and still feeling like she’d be sick, the girl trudged back through the snow with the knight behind her. If throwing herself on their mercy was her only hope of survival, then that was exactly what she would do.
Darkness surrounded her. Heavy manacles hung from her wrists and thick fabric wrapped tight across her eyes. As soon as they’d emerged from the forest she’d been bundled into the tent and bound in place despite the protests of her captor.
At least the inside of the tent was slightly less freezing. Now all she had to worry about was whether the knights would execute her or just torture her in hopes she knew something.
Fabric shifted in the gloom and cold winds reached inside. Boots pressed into the snow outside and a brief murmur of conversation followed. The next moment she heard someone step inside, their pace slow and even. It sounded like they were circling her, trying to weigh her worth before asking questions. Shivers ran down her spine. She couldn’t tell if it was because of the cold, or the fear of what might happen next.
“Well now, today has been a most interesting day. The king’s spymaster reports to me that a Saxon raiding party has camped near a desolate stretch of woodland in the middle of winter for no apparent reason. Upon arriving at the camp, I find nothing but the usual raiders, willing to fight and die rather than surrender and be taken alive. And also…”
Her interrogator whirled in the dark and steel-clad fingers cupped her chin. The stranger’s voice paused as he examined her face. All she could do was breath and try not to panic at the casual contempt and coldness dripping from his words.
“A report about a strange red-haired figure fleeing from the Saxon camp wielding a freshly bloodied sword. Which is strange to hear, since none of the knights involved in the attack suffered so much as a scratch. Meaning that the strange figure cut down one of the Saxons like a prisoner escaping his captors, but then fled into the woods like someone running from his enemies. Do you have any answers for me?”
Fear rose in her throat and answers sprang unbidden to her mind. Half-truths, lies, anything she could offer up to avoid being executed by her captors.
“Treasure," she gasped. "They were hunting for treasure, old gold from King Uther’s reign. My father gave them a map and his services in exchange for a share, and I stayed back at camp as a hostage while they went out to find it. When I heard the melee outside, I thought you might be rival Saxons come to claim it, so I fled.”
Fingers danced across her cheeks, and she felt her captor evaluate her answer, passing over each word and eyeing it for falsehoods.
“Hhmm, a plausible tale. Greed enough on both sides, and reason for you to murder one of them and try to run to save your own skin. Perhaps you are truly unfortunate enough to end up in the wrong place, at the wrong time, and we should simply let you go.”
Her captor’s grip loosened and her head slumped forward, relief running through her. Lying had never come easily to her, but perhaps she’d created a good enough one that they would let her go.
“But.” Her heart ran cold at the word. “That would require me to believe such a bald-faced lie. Tell me the truth. What is it the Saxons sought in the wood, and what is your relationship with them? Are there any more nearby? Where were they planning to take their prize once they found it? Did Vortigern send you?”
Answers whirled around her head and she struggled to settle on a lie. Pleading ignorance wouldn't help, even if it was entirely true. Whatever the band of Saxons had been promised, she'd been kept in the dark, and mixing in truth with lie hadn't worked.
Another gust of cold wind blew into the tent and she shivered. Someone else had stepped inside. Not the knight from before, come to ensure her safety and honour his word. This was something else. A darker, more intimidating presence.
Her interrogator sounded surprised. “We were not expecting you, my-.”
“Is this the one who ran?”
“Yes. I was just beginning to question her, and she is proving resistant. As expected.”
Metal shifted in the dark and she tried to calm herself, to breathe. The first voice had been contemptuous and cold, promising cruelty if denied answers and obedience. The second voice was different. Raw power radiated from every word. It promised death to all who even considered defying it, and made her body tremble with the deepest fear she'd ever known.
“You. Prisoner.”
She started upright, manacles and the cold forgotten beneath the terror. Truth was all that could save her now.
“Tell me. What is your relationship with Vortigern?”
“I have none.”
“Do you know of any more Saxons nearby?”
“No, this band was the only one I know about.”
“What did they seek in these woods?”
That question again. Indecision briefly wracked her body, but the urge to continue living won out.
“I don't know. My father made a bargain with them, protection in exchange for something valuable he thought was in there. He never told me more than that, I swear.”
Silence filled the tent and she began to sweat. It felt like her head was about to be sliced off or crushed to a pulp, that death would come for her and she would be powerless to stop it. Nothing in the voice promised mercy when it had spoken. Only pain and oblivion at the merest hint of defiance.
Something touched her head and she tensed, expecting cold gauntlets to wrap around her skull and crush her. Fabric brushed against her skin and the blindfold fell away, revealing the two interrogators in the half-lit tent. The first figure was tall, with dark hair and stony eyes, clad in dark armour with a heavy blue cloak. The way he stared at her, like she was an animal ready for slaughter, matched his voice almost perfectly.
The second one was clad in black too, his armour tinged red in places, the rest shrouded by a thick black cloak around his shoulders. His features were young and boyish, with yellow-gold locks that trailed over pale skin. Blue-green eyes stared back at her, cold like the wind and fierce like the sea, flecked with traces of gold. If she had to guess, he looked roughly her own age.
None of his apparent youth made her any less terrified of him.
Steel flashed in the half-light, the boy's scabbard rasping as he drew the blade. A feeling of resignation swept over her. Answering truthfully had only spared her pain. Now that they had no more questions for her, her life was forfeit. The blade came down, a blur of gold and blue, and she closed her eyes.
Metal clanged and the manacles around her wrists clattered to the ground. She looked up, surprised to still be alive, and saw the boyish figure turn away and stride towards the tent flap, the only acknowledgement of her presence a quick glance before his eyes fixed on the other man.
“Ready the men, Agravain, we are finished here. Give the prisoner new clothes and find someone with space on their horse for another rider. They are coming with us. And tell Morgan to visit my chambers this evening.”
She'd expected surprise to flash across the other man, Agravain's, face. Instead he merely bowed and turned to leave, like nothing at all unusual had happened.
She looked up and locked eyes with the boyish figure. The air of intimidation and power hadn't faded in the slightest, but at least the terror and fear it inspired had slightly.
“You. What is your name?”
In all the confusion, she hadn't even noticed they never asked. She bowed slightly, still rubbing her wrists from where the cold metal had rubbed against her skin.
“My name is Ritsuka. Ritsuka Fujimaru.”
They rode out soon after her release, with Agravain and the boy at the head of the column and the small number of knights trailing behind. Ritsuka found herself in the middle, a place of protection in case of ambush and security in the event she tried to escape again. Whatever fate awaited her at their destination, it clearly wasn't one her captors wanted her to avoid.
She rode with the knight who'd found her in the woods, a large man now she had a chance to look at him properly, and silent during the journey. Whether it was out of awkwardness with an unfamiliar face, orders to keep silent, or shame for feeling like he'd failed to keep his word, Ritsuka couldn't say. Right now she had more pressing things to worry about.
At least she'd been given warmer clothes and the dignity to change into them in private. And so far none of the knights seemed to have noticed she was a woman. The bindings around her chest still held, and any cracks in her voice had hopefully been mistaken as being afraid for her life. Travelling around with her father required such disguises to avoid the scum of the roads and villages, and she wasn't willing to trust these knights would be any more noble in that regard than the Saxons or common brigands. But so long as they thought she was just a fair-looking boy she felt reasonably safe.
Night was falling by the time they arrived at their destination, a squat longhouse fashioned from stone surrounded by a few other small buildings. The knights dismounted and began to move inside, her companion nodding at her as he left. It didn't take long for Agravain to find her.
“Follow me. The king wishes to see you in his chambers.”
Ritsuka nodded and hurried after, wrapping her cloak around her shoulders as the night's chill crept in. Agravain led her away from the other knights in the direction of one of the smaller buildings. The door swung open and she stepped inside, starting a little as it immediately slammed shut behind her. Even without the chains around her wrists, she still felt like a prisoner awaiting her sentence.
The building's interior was nicer than a cell at least. A small hearth fire crackled away in the corner, likely lit by servants she hadn't seen yet. Simple wooden furnishings filled the space, with a handful of books scattered around the room, some left half-open on the nearby bedding, others stacked neatly atop the few shelves available.
She stepped further into the room and crouched beside the fire, enjoying the warmth as it flooded through her hands. Camping with the Saxons for days had left her sore and desperate to be somewhere that wasn't freezing. And captive though she was, at least now she could feel her limbs again.
The silence gave her time to think about her father. They'd come to Britain weeks ago in the name of deepening their family's Magecraft, and ever since they'd been trekking across the country high and low in search of the clues and secrets he'd sworn were there. His efforts had led them deeper and deeper into the land, and the mysterious bargain he'd struck with the Saxons had kept them safe until they'd reached those woods.
Days had passed since her father had ventured in with half a dozen axe-hands. Whether he was alive or dead was unclear to her. And even if he was alive, it was the middle of winter, and Ritsuka was now captive to this band of local knights. Perhaps they might still let her go if she convinced them that she was of no further use to them, but they were unlikely to aid her afterwards. This group sounded hostile to Vortigern and the Saxons, and would doubtless execute her if they knew her father might have promised them anything magical in exchange for protection.
The door behind her swung open abruptly and Ritsuka darted to her feet, blinking a little at the sudden chill wind. Black greaves strode across the floor and the boyish figure from earlier stepped inside, barely glancing at her as he placed himself by the hearth.
Seconds passed and Ritsuka risked a peek at him from the corner of her eye. Even at rest, the aura of intimidation around him hadn't faded. Waves of ominous power radiated from his entire body, reinforcing her fears that she was about to die. Deceit felt impossible in the face of such force. Her body simply wouldn't allow her to lie.
“You. Ritsuka.”
She started at the sudden voice, her body stiff with apprehension as his gold-flecked eyes looked at her. Nothing in his words had sounded intimidating or violent, but the sheer power around him made her frightened anyway.
“Y-yes?”
His cloak slipped onto the floor and the oppressive atmosphere lessened, just a little. Gauntlets thudded to join them and the boyish figure leaned forward to warm his hands by the fire, his gaze no longer fixed on her.
“You carried your own sword back at the Saxon camp. Do you know how to use it?”
“Just enough. My father and I travel often, and he said it would be worth knowing how to defend ourselves on the road.”
Amusement flickered across his face and the atmosphere shifted a little more.
“And what do you think has become of your father? You said he went into the woods with the Saxons, looking for something. How long ago?”
Despite the change in surroundings, her situation hadn't changed at all. She was still being interrogated, and still had no choice but to hope none of her answers got her killed.
“A few days. By now, I fear he isn't coming back. Winter is unforgiving, and those woods had an evil feeling about them. Not to mention the Saxons' reputation of betrayal. Part of me wouldn't be surprised if he was...”
Despite the dire circumstances, Ritsuka couldn't quite bring herself to voice the words out loud. Knowing her father could be dead didn't feel that shocking to her. Ever since she was young, he'd drilled into her the reality he could die in his pursuit of magical knowledge, and that she would have to carry on the legacy he left her. But for now, saying it out loud was more than she could manage.
Wood creaked and the boyish figure rose to his feet. His blue-green eyes were directly fixed on her now, and her heart hammered in her chest. Even without the air of power and intimidation, there was something compelling about his eyes. A distant strain of nobility buried underneath the aura of fear and compliance.
“You have given me your name, and answered my questions honestly. In recognition of that, you have earned the right to my name.”
The air inside the room stirred and Ritsuka felt her pulse run fast. His eyes drew her in deeper and deeper as he spoke, every word ringing in her ear like a spell.
“I am heir to the throne of Britain, child of Uther Pendragon, and my name is Arthur Pendragon. And you, Ritsuka Fujimaru, are of interest to me.”
Lightning ran through her veins and she knelt, the fear of before given rise to sheer awe. Even though they had only been in Britain a little while, she and her father had both heard that name, whispered by Saxon and Briton alike. The one who sought to unite Britain and expel the invaders from his land.
The king fighting to reclaim his father's throne stood before her, and it was his men that held her captive.
Fear followed the awe. Confessing even to the little she knew of her father's dealings with the Saxons would certainly get her killed now, and no lie or half-truth could conceal it either. Just as many tales circulated of the would-be-king's brutality as they did his valour. How he raged across the battlefield, hunting down every Saxon like a dragon slaughtering rabbits. How every knight under his command followed him absolutely, no matter the order, lest they be expelled from his service or executed.
Cold filled her body again and Ritsuka began to tremble as she rose. There would be no escape for her, only death at the hands of Arthur Pendragon.
“Are you scaring another Saxon pawn half to death, my king?”
In the back of her mind, Ritsuka realised it wasn't just fear that made her cold. Someone else had entered the room. Solid wood slammed shut behind the new arrival, a tall figure dressed head to toe in black. A thick cloak hung around her shoulders and a veil shrouded her face, but it was clear she was a woman. The cloak and veil did little to hide the shape of her body, or the cold of her icy-blue eyes as they fixed on Ritsuka.
Arthur sank back into his chair, gaze fixed firmly on the new arrival, and sighed.
“Morgan. You've arrived sooner than I expected. Do you have any new information?”
The new arrival strode into the room, slight contempt evident in every fibre of her being, and fixed her gaze on Ritsuka as she drew near. Even with a fire warming the room, she felt suddenly cold in the woman's presence.
“Much to my displeasure, no. That band of Saxons truly seems to have been working alone. Not a single other within leagues of here, and none of the local fools have any idea what they were looking for. Despite how thorough my efforts were, I have nothing to show for it. You appear to have had more success than I did.”
Ritsuka swallowed. Arthur's presence compelled her to answer everything she was asked without question, to divulge every secret she knew. Morgan's presence was far more off-putting. It felt like the woman could see directly into her head. That she already knew every secret Ritsuka had, and all she wanted her to do was admit to them for her amusement.
Morgan leaned in close and her eyes gleamed wickedly. “So tell me, dear sister. What has this little girl had to say for herself?”
Silence filled the room, broken only by the crackling of the hearth and the drumbeat of Ritsuka's heart. Distantly, she was aware of the sharp glare Arthur gave Morgan, and the casual smirk she gave as she sauntered around the room in search of something.
They've found you out, they know what you are, and now you know what the king is too. Now they won't let you live, they can't, never.
“You overstep yourself, Morgan. Again.”
“Oh spare me the lecture, dear sister. Even if we weren't related I could still read you like a book. Your plans for the girl are incredibly obvious, so all I've done is save you some time. Unless your majesty would prefer to do all the talking for once?”
Ritsuka stirred at the mention of plans. If they had something that involved her, then it might mean she wasn't about to be killed. Panic began to drain away as she looked over at the boyish-looking figure again, distractedly glaring at her sister, and peered at her more closely. Now that Morgan had revealed the secret, she could see it clear as day.
The youthful features, the yellow-gold hair, all on the edge of how a boy might look before he became a man rather than a woman's. All the stories she'd heard about the eternal youth granted by Caliburn seemed far less fanciful seeing the king up close, and it explained why no-one else had noticed she was a woman. If it was even the sword that gave the king the appearance of someone nearly ten years younger.
Blue-green eyes turned to look at her and Ritsuka started. A low sigh escaped the king's lips and she leant back in her chair, head propped up on her hand as their eyes met.
“Thanks to my spymaster, the secret is out. In which case you should know my real name. Nothing else of what I said was a lie, but my true name is Artoria Pendragon.”
“And I,” came Morgan's voice from behind. “Am Morgan Pendragon, queen of Orkney and sister to our beloved king of Britain entire, who humbly serves as her royal spymaster and advisor. So tell me, who are you, and what brings your ragged little band of Saxons here?”
Ritsuka started, surprised that she was being questioned like this again. Perhaps her fear that Morgan could stare directly into her mind was just that.
“My name is Ritsuka Fujimaru. My father and I travelled here in search of something, and he struck a bargain with a band of Saxons for protection. We arrived at the woods a few days ago and he went inside with some of them, but he hasn't returned.”
Pale-blue eyes swayed in front of her as Morgan emerged from the corner of the room, wineskin in hand, smirking slightly at her answer. Agravain's gaze had been contemptuous, and Artoria's intimidating beyond belief. But in that moment, Morgan's gaze felt the worst of them. Like she'd enjoy tearing Ritsuka apart if she gave a wrong answer, savouring the girl's pain as she wrung every scrap of information that she could out of her.
“Morgan.”
The veiled woman turned away again and Ritsuka let out a long breath. All day she'd been swinging between fear for her life and tentative hope that she might be allowed to live. Right now she just wanted everything to be over.
“Well, that does make some sense. For now I'm satisfied with that as your answer, but do be assured, I will have more questions later. If you would be so kind, dear sister, to say your piece so we can finish here.”
At least it sounded like Ritsuka's fate would be revealed now. She turned to face Artoria and braced herself for the inevitable. Whatever was going to happen to her, she would just have to accept it and pray it was merciful.
“I will hear no objections on the matter,” Artoria leaned forward in her chair and fixed her gaze on Ritsuka. “You are going to be my bodyguard.”