Unknownfate
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Chapter 11
🕑 Added 2025-03-29 00:11:48 +0000 UTCBefore he could gather his thoughts, the King continued, their voice steady.
"Symbols endure because they symbolize more than mere objects; they are ideals. And ideals—when upheld with genuine conviction—unite those who strive for justice, unity, and peace. Camelot is not merely a kingdom, Sir Andrew. It is the essence of what a kingdom ought to be."
Natasha sensed the tension building again. For a brief moment, she thought she noticed a flicker of emotion behind Mordred’s confident exterior—a hint of sorrow or yearning.
The King’s voice softened, yet retained its authority.
"You have come to discuss friendship, yet you question the very foundation of this realm. If your intentions are sincere, let us move forward without further debate.
But understand this: the land recalls its King, even if the populace has forgotten. England is Camelot, and Camelot is immortal."
Natasha realized she was holding her breath, anxious to see how Sir Andrew would respond to the King’s definitive statement.
Andrew’s lips parted as if to speak, but the words seemed to escape him before he could articulate them.
His clenched fists trembled at his sides.
The King’s presence, Agravain’s unwavering confidence, and the gleaming blade with its legendary inscription felt like an unstoppable force.
Andrew took a slow breath, his voice low and controlled, yet tinged with frustration.
“Your Majesty, Sir Agravain,” he began, “it is apparent that we will not reach a consensus today regarding sovereignty. Your conviction is undeniable, and I must recognize the strength of the legacy you uphold.”
Andrew carefully chose his words, but Natasha sensed the underlying tension. He paused, exchanging glances with Sir Richard and Professor Marlowe.
Both men were clearly torn between awe and unease.
Straightening himself, Andrew adopted a professional tone as he continued.
"Today, we have learned a great deal about the history, power, and ideals associated with Camelot, for which we are grateful. However, it would be wise for us to leave now, to reflect on what we have experienced and communicate these insights to those we represent."
Agravain narrowed his intense gaze. “Are you fleeing with tales and promises of peace? Or do you plan to return with armies?” His voice dripped with suspicion, challenging Andrew not to falter.
Andrew’s jaw tightened, yet he maintained his composure.
“We aim merely to ensure that the discussions between Camelot and the United Kingdom are conducted with the respect they deserve. Rushing our decisions in such a revered hall would tarnish its legacy.”
The tension in the room intensified.
Andrew’s subtle insistence on equality between Camelot and the UK did not go unnoticed.
Mordred tilted his head, a hint of a smirk gracing his lips.
Gawain’s expression darkened, filled with restrained disappointment.
Agravain, however, seemed poised to pursue the issue further.
The King raised a gauntleted hand.
With a single motion, the room fell silent. “You are free to leave,” they declared, their tone calm yet firm.
“Return to your realm and share what you have witnessed here. But understand this: Camelot’s sovereignty is non-negotiable. The truth does not yield to influence or rhetoric.”
Andrew bowed stiffly, his frustration barely masked by the gesture. “Your Majesty, we appreciate your time and the privilege of being in this hall. We shall relay your message to our people.”
The delegation retreated. The knights parted to allow them through.
Natasha lingered for a moment, her keen eyes scanning the room one last time.
The King’s gaze followed her—a heavy presence she could feel, even without seeing their face.
As they left the throne room, the immense doors shut behind them with a resonating finality.
Natasha sensed Andrew's unease.
His shoulders tensed as they walked through the castle’s majestic corridors.
Once they were out of earshot, Andrew exhaled sharply. For the first time, his carefully maintained composure broke. “That was... not what I anticipated.”
Sir Richard, ever the optimist, interjected. His voice was laced with wonder. “Not what any of us had in mind. But consider what we’ve experienced! The Lion King, Caliburn, Camelot itself—this is history manifest!”
Andrew pivoted sharply, frustration boiling over. “History manifest or not, we are no closer to a resolution! They perceive themselves as the rightful rulers of England, Richard. That isn’t something we can simply... negotiate.”
Natasha understood he was correct; everyone did. The world could never accept something like this—it was as absurd as a magical city from ancient tales appearing overnight.
Natasha noticed Sir Richard’s enchanted expression as he looked back at Camelot’s soaring spires, no longer trying to mask his amazement. “But Andrew, do you really comprehend what we’ve just experienced?
This isn’t merely history; it’s a living legend. The King, the knights, this city... it’s a wonder beyond anything our world has ever encountered. We must treat this with caution and respect.”
Andrew’s expression darkened, his patience waning. “Respect? Caution? Richard, did you hear what they proclaimed in there? They’re not seeking diplomacy or discussion—they’re asserting that England is theirs! If you want to submit to a fairy tale, go ahead, but I refuse to accept that.”
Sir Andrew Farrow’s voice escalated, frustration surfacing. “This isn’t inspiring, Richard—it’s perilous. They don’t regard us as equals; they see us as misguided subjects, and their claims are as absolute as they are ludicrous. What occurs when they recognize we aren’t inclined to surrender the kingdom?”
Marlowe, silent for most of the discussion, finally spoke up, uncertainty in his tone. “But what if they can enforce those claims? Their power, that sword—it’s not something we can overlook, Andrew. If we provoke them…”
Andrew turned to him, his face tight with annoyance. “And what’s your plan, Marlowe? Surrender? Hand over Parliament and the crown? I understand your fear, but that doesn’t mean we submit to it.”
Natasha felt it was time to step in, her voice steady but resolute. “Andrew is correct. This isn’t solely about caution—it’s about maintaining our ground. Their beliefs don’t alter our knowledge: England isn’t theirs, and it hasn’t been for centuries. That’s the reality we inhabit, and no shimmering swords or ancient cities can change that.”
Andrew nodded sharply, appreciating the backup. “Exactly. We must draw that line, clearly and firmly. Otherwise, this ‘Camelot’ will think they can just stride in and seize control.”
Sir Richard looked between them, a sliver of disappointment in his gaze. “I believe you’re both overlooking the broader picture. This is not just about borders or governments. It’s about what this signifies—what Camelot could mean for the world.”
Andrew shot him a disdainful glance. “It symbolizes a fantasy that cannot coexist with reality, Richard. And if you’re so enchanted by the notion of kings and thrones, perhaps you belong in a different century.”
Natasha intervened, her tone slicing through the growing tension. “Enough. We’re not here to argue about Camelot’s significance—that’s for the people back home to decide. Our responsibility is to report what we’ve witnessed and learned. Everything else can wait.”
Andrew sighed heavily, reluctantly conceding. “Fine. Let’s return. But remember—this won’t conclude with pleasant talks and ancient artifacts. We’ve encountered something much larger than any of us, and it won’t dissipate quietly.”
-----
The heavy doors of the throne room closed behind the departing delegation, enveloping the grand hall in a suffocating hush. The soft click of the latch rang out, marking the tension of the encounter.
The knights remained motionless, their stances mirroring differing levels of frustration, disdain, or contemplation. Mordred casually leaned against a pillar, a smirk playing on his lips as if he found the situation amusing.
Agravain, on the other hand, appeared far from entertained. His fists were tightly clenched, his intense gaze fixated on the closed doors as if he could will the delegation out of his mind entirely.
“They dared to challenge the King’s authority,” Agravain spat, his voice sharp enough to slice through the heavy atmosphere. “To question what is ordained by truth and history! Insolent doesn’t even begin to capture it.”
Bedivere, standing nearby, let out a measured sigh. “Sir Agravain, they are not from our era. Their world has shaped them differently. They know nothing of the King’s rightful authority.”
“That ignorance is no excuse!” Agravain retorted, his tone becoming icier. “They come here as emissaries of rebellion, disguised as diplomats. Their arrogance is an affront to all of Camelot.”
Gawain, who had until now been quiet, finally stepped forward, his golden armor gleaming in the light as he looked between Agravain and the throne. “Their words were indeed provocative, but I don’t believe they sought outright conflict.
Their understanding of kingship may be distorted, perhaps irreparably so, but it is simply the way of their world. They are not knights; they do not comprehend the meaning of serving a higher ideal.”
Mordred laughed softly, the sound carrying a sharp edge. “Oh, Gawain, ever the optimist. Did you miss the part where they practically scorned the notion of the King’s rule? They’d never bow willingly. They’re too lost in their ‘democracy’ nonsense.”
Agravaine shot a cold look at Mordred. “I thought you might appreciate their rebellious spirit.”
Mordred growled, Clarent in hand. “I dare you to repeat that!”
The atmosphere chilled at Mordred’s words. Bedivere frowned deeply, while Gawain’s brows knitted together in disapproval.
Finally, it was the King who broke the silence, their voice calm yet resonating. “Enough.”
The single word instantly silenced the room. All eyes turned to the throne, where the King remained seated, their golden sword resting point-down against the stone floor.
“Our guests are departing, and they will take with them what they have learned here. What we must do now is focus on our next steps.”
The King’s voice, steady yet resolute, resonated throughout the throne room, instilling a sense of finality. Even Mordred, clutching Clarent, paused as if weighed down by their ruler’s words. The tension in the room lessened somewhat but lingered like a tightly drawn string ready to snap.
Agravain inclined his head, his expression still sharp. “As you decree, my King. Yet we cannot overlook the affront to your sovereignty. Their words were not mere ignorance—they were a provocation.”
“Our path is evident,” I stated, their calm and commanding voice ringing clear. “We were brought here because the land cries for salvation, and we shall provide it, no matter the cost.”
I glanced at the four knights—two fully supportive of waging war to unite the kingdom, and two opposed to such forceful measures. Yet, I understood that force would ultimately have to play a part.
For even if I gained the people's support, those in power would deny them the right to choose their own path and future, rejecting the will of the many and using force against me.
Gawain addressed the room once more, his voice demonstrating a subtle yet firm conviction. “Your Majesty, though I cannot dispute that conflict may arise, the people are merely unaware of what your rule will bring them, I don’t believe we should resort to force, nor that it is needed.”
Mordred scoffed, crossing her arms. “Even back then, father still had to use force to unite the lords under one banner, this time it will be no different.”
Bedivere interjected calmly, though firm. “Enough. Both of you voice your convictions, but our priority must be the King’s will. The way forward is clear—we must guide the people, whether through their hearts or actions, until they see that Camelot is the solution.”
I, who had stayed silent, finally spoke with a calm yet resonant voice. “Bedivere is right, you both speak well, and both speak the truth, a path along the middle is the one we will take.”
I didn’t like to see my knights divided like this, but I knew it was impossible for them to stand fully as one group, at least not yet.
“Now, this is not the time to discuss our future strategy, such things should be done when the Round Table is fully assembled, so go, go inform your fellow knights of what happened here, talk, think, discuss among yourself, and later I shall hear your wisdom.
With that, Bedivere, Mordred and Gawain all bowed before leaving. Though I could clearly see that Mordred left on his own, while Gawain and Bedivere left together, the rift between them was more clear than ever.
I took a moment of silence, gazing out of the grand windows of the throne room, where the banners of Camelot flapped in the wind. “Then let the restoration of this kingdom commence.”
Agravain paused for a moment to absorb my words and decision before he spoke. “You are different. The boy king would never impose his rule, no matter how just.”
With a smile, I used my powers to adjust my armor, opting for a more open style. “I have matured, Sir Agravain. I understand now that some actions must be taken even if some individuals disagree.”
“What will your knights say? What if they disapprove?” Agravain inquired, his concern for his king evident.
“They will accept it; I have no doubt… This era may appear peaceful and prosperous, but beneath the surface, it is decayed. Once they recognize this, not just my knights, but the people will come to support my rule,” I asserted with conviction.
As a deity, a divine entity, my perception of the world had transformed; I no longer merely sensed people's wishes, but I could discern the very essence of existence—perhaps just of Britain.
I perceived this nebulous, formless aura that everything radiated. As the White Lion King of the sixth singularity, I recognized the purity of the human soul—I still could—but this was different.
What I saw was not just the soul but Britain's fate, and it appeared bleak.
“For now, we will prepare. The gates will remain shut. No knight may depart without my consent, but you, Sir Agravain, have the authority to grant permission if you deem it necessary—though be cautious; you are still accountable to me.”
“You honor me with your trust,” he replied, bowing.
“Now, I believe the others have been busy today, so I’ll let you return to overseeing their tasks.” I waved him off.
With him gone, I was left to confront a significant revelation: Natasha Romanoff—or Natalia Alianovna Romanova, as my insights revealed. The presence of the Black Widow held significant implications.
It illuminated the nature of the world I inhabited, explaining why I couldn’t locate the Clock Tower and why I sensed no reverse side.
The reason was clear: for some unbeknownst reason, I had been reborn as Arthuria Pendragon within the Marvel Universe.
