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Commission TURBO: Queen's Humility (Morgan FGO Horse TF)
🕑 Added 2025-07-26 18:45:47 +0000 UTCThe air in the singularity was thick and sweet, heavy with the scent of cherry blossoms and damp earth. Rays of morning sun slanted through the paper walls of the traditional Japanese hut, illuminating dust motes dancing in the still air. Outside, the rhythmic thwack of a shishi-odoshi echoed, a peaceful, meditative sound that stood in stark contrast to the simmering tension within the small tatami room.
Morgan le Fay, the High Queen of Faerie Britain, sat with perfect, almost severe posture. Her hands were folded neatly in her lap, her expression a mask of cold annoyance. Even in this strange, unfamiliar land, separated from her Master and Chaldea's support, she radiated an aura of absolute authority.
Across from her, pacing restlessly, was Artoria Caster. The Child of Prophecy, the savior of her own lost world, was a bundle of nervous energy. She tugged at the sleeve of her outfit, her gaze darting from the shoji screen door to Morgan’s impassive face.
Morgan remained perfectly still, her posture one of effortless regality even on the floor of a strange hovel. "He will find us," she stated, her voice a low, melodic certainty. "My husband is resourceful. We will wait here for his arrival."
Artoria shot her a disbelieving look. "Wait? Morgan, we're in an active Singularity! We don't know what threats are out here. The primary objective is to locate the source of the distortion. We should be gathering intelligence, scouting the area, doing something."
"The primary objective," Morgan countered, her eyes narrowing slightly, "is to ensure my husband's safety. Rushing out into an unknown territory without him is tactically foolish and unnecessarily reckless. I will not move from this spot until he is here."
Artoria’s fists clenched at her sides. It was always this. This unwavering, almost suffocating devotion to Fujimaru that Morgan wore like a second crown. While Artoria cared deeply for their Master, her duty as a Servant and a wielder of Avalon le Fae compelled her to act, to protect the timeline.
"He's my Master too, you know!" Artoria snapped, her voice rising. "And he'd want us to be proactive, not just sit around like decorations in a dollhouse! For a queen who ruled a nation of fae, you're surprisingly passive."
"Passivity and prudence are not the same, child," Morgan replied, a condescending coolness icing her words. I am a Queen. My place is by my King's side. Here, that is my husband. I will not be lectured on my duties by the likes of you."
"Logical?" Castoria threw her hands up in exasperation. "It's arrogant! It's always about your pride, isn't it? You can't stand the thought of not being in control for a single second! You know," she continued, a spark of defiance igniting in her eyes, "for all your talk of being the perfect, all-powerful queen, you don't know the first thing about true grace or modesty! Even a simple mare in a field is less arrogant than you!"
A dangerous silence fell over the room. The air grew cold, the playful sunbeams seeming to lose their warmth. Morgan’s serene mask cracked, revealing the glacial fury beneath. She rose slowly, a predator uncoiling.
"A mare," she repeated, her voice dangerously low. "You compare me… to a beast of burden?"
"If the hoof fits!" Castoria retorted, though she took an involuntary step back. She had poked the dragon, and she knew it.
A confident, cruel smirk played on Morgan's lips. "You seem to believe arrogance is my defining trait, little fairy. You believe I am incapable of embodying humility. A foolish assumption. I will demonstrate what true, noble modesty looks like, and put your peasant sensibilities in their place."
Her hands began to glow with a vibrant, blue light. Mana, dense and ancient, swirled around her, making the tatami mats ripple as if they were water. She began an incantation, words of power from an age long past, a spell designed to conjure an avatar of perfect humility a creature of serene and gentle spirit that would shame Castoria's outburst.
But something was wrong. The mana in this singularity was different wilder, more primal than she had anticipated. The spell, intended to be a simple conjuration, latched onto the nearest, most potent source of magical energy and pride in the room: its caster. The blue light flared violently, turning a sickly shade of violet at the edges, and instead of projecting outward, it imploded, wrapping itself around Morgan.
"What?" she gasped, her composure finally shattering. The magic was spiraling out of her control, twisting back on her with vindictive force.
A sharp, tingling sensation shot through her scalp. She reached up, her fingers brushing against something that was not her own ear. It was taller, pointed, and covered in fine, white fur. It twitched involuntarily at the sound of the shishi-odoshi. Panic, a foreign and detestable emotion, began to claw its way up her throat.
"Morgan?" Castoria’s taunting demeanor vanished, replaced by genuine alarm. "What's happening?"
Morgan couldn't answer. The blue light completely engulfed her, a cocoon of chaotic energy. She tried to raise her hands to cast a counter-spell, to dispel this abomination, but her gaze fell upon them and a choked cry escaped her lips. Her elegant, pale fingers were thickening, merging together. Her immaculate nails were darkening, hardening, spreading out to form a solid, crescent shaped plate of keratin. She stared in horror as her hands, the hands that had commanded armies and rewritten history, reshaped themselves into the hard, dark hooves of an equine.
She stumbled, trying to cry out, but her face was seized by an agonizing pressure. Her refined jawline stretched, her nose and mouth pulling forward with a nauseating series of cracks and pops. Her features, sculpted by centuries of royal authority, elongated into the soft, velvety muzzle of a horse. The world became a blur of distorted shapes and colors as her eyes shifted in their sockets.
A wave of vertigo washed over her as her spine contorted with a sickening lurch. Her center of gravity plummeted, her body pitching forward. Instinct, alien and overwhelming, forced her to land on her newly formed forelimbs to keep from crashing to the floor. Her designer dress, the pinnacle of queenly fashion, tore and shredded as her torso lengthened and her hips widened, her legs changing into powerful hindquarters. She was on all fours, trapped in a quadrupedal stance.
The magical light finally faded, leaving behind a profound silence, broken only by the sound of ragged, heavy breathing.
Where the magnificent Queen Morgan le Fay had stood, there was now a mare. She was a creature of stunning, almost mythical beauty. Her coat was a pristine, snowy white, gleaming in the sun. Her long, silvery white ponytail had become a magnificent, flowing mane and tail that brushed against the tatami. And her eyes, wide with shock and fury, were the same piercing, blue. Remnants of her black dress lay in tattered ruins around her elegant, equine form.
She tried to speak, to curse Castoria. But all that came out was a high, startled whinny.
For a moment, Castoria was frozen, her mouth agape. She stared at the mare, at the familiar blue eyes filled with a very familiar rage. The sheer, unadulterated absurdity of the situation crashed over her.
A snort escaped her. Then a giggle. Then, she clutched her stomach, folded over, and howled with unrestrained, hysterical laughter. Tears streamed down her face as she pointed a trembling finger at the horse.
"Oh... oh, by the Avalon!" she wheezed, struggling for breath. "You... you did it! You actually did it!"
Morgan stomped a forehoof on the mat, a resounding thump that only made Castoria laugh harder. An angry snort huffed from her new nostrils.
"Well, Your Majesty?" Castoria gasped, wiping tears from her eyes. "Feeling more modest now? I have to admit, it's a good look for you! That's a lovely coat you have! Very... regal!"
The mare’s ears flattened against her head. A deep, visible blush rose on her velvety cheeks, a wave of furious, burning shame. She was the great Queen, reduced to this… this livestock. And to be mocked by her, the insipid country girl who dared call herself Child of Prophecy. It was a humiliation beyond measure. She tried to glare daggers, but it was difficult to look truly menacing when you had the face of a horse. She turned her head away with a frustrated toss of her mane, refusing to give Castoria the satisfaction of looking at her.
It was at that moment that the shoji screen door slid open with a sharp rattle.
"Castoria! Morgan! I heard shouting! Are you alright?"
Fujimaru Ritsuka, their Master, burst into the room, his face etched with relief and concern. He stopped dead, his sentence trailing off into a choked silence.
His brain struggled to process the scene before him. Castoria, his normally earnest Caster, was rolling on the floor, laughing so hard she could barely breathe. And in the center of the room, standing amidst a pile of shredded black fabric, was a breathtakingly beautiful white horse. A horse that, upon his arrival, had frozen completely and was now staring at the floor with an air of utter mortification. A horse with incredibly familiar, intelligent, and currently mortified blue eyes.
Fujimaru blinked. He looked from the laughing Castoria to the horse, and back again. The silvery white mane… the regal posture, even on four legs… the sheer intensity of the shame radiating from the creature.
His jaw dropped. A single, disbelieving word escaped his lips.
"Morgan…?"
The mare flinched as if struck.
"Master! You're okay!" Castoria finally managed to sit up, her face red and still wet with tears of mirth. "You will not believe what happened! Her Majesty here was trying to teach me a lesson about humility, and, well…" She gestured grandly at the equine queen. "The lesson was a bit more… hands-on than she intended!"
Fujimaru remained speechless, his gaze fixed on the mare. Morgan, his powerful, proud, and often terrifying wife proclaiming Servant, was a horse.
Overwhelmed by a tidal wave of shame so profound it eclipsed even her fury, Morgan could not bring herself to meet his eyes. She was the Queen who ruled time itself, a being who stood above all others. Yet, before her Master her husband, in her heart she had been laid this low. She turned her head further away, tucking her muzzle towards her chest, her beautiful mane falling like a curtain to hide her face. A soft, miserable nicker was the only sound she made.
The hut was filled with the sound of Castoria’s fading giggles, the steady thwack of the shishi-odoshi outside, and the profound, stunned silence of a Master who had thought he had seen everything Chaldea had to offer. He had been wrong.
