Unknownfate
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Chapter 10
🕑 Added 2025-03-29 00:10:52 +0000 UTCFor a brief moment, it felt as though he could see through her disguise.
“You,” he accused in a growl. “You have the audacity to lie before the king; your deceit is palpable. Even your name is a falsehood.”
“Sir Agravain,” Andrew interjected, bowing slightly, “I must object. This delegation was formed with great care, and if there has been any misunderstanding, it is our responsibility as her allies to address it.”
Agravain silenced him with a swift gesture. “Do not speak for her. Let her defend herself if she possesses the courage.”
Realizing there was no escape but to confront the situation, Natasha took a deep breath.
She stepped forward and bowed her head slightly toward the throne.
“Your Majesty, Sir Agravain,” she stated, her voice steady and composed.
“You are correct—I haven’t been completely open. However, my intentions are not duplicitous. I am here to ensure the safety of this delegation and to represent the respect and goodwill of those who sent us.”
She raised her head, holding Agravain’s cold gaze directly.
“I am skilled in combat, and I have concealed aspects of my identity—not out of malice, but from the fear that revealing too much would raise unnecessary alarm.”
Agravain’s glare remained unyielding. “You acknowledge deception yet plead innocence. How convenient.”
Natasha pressed on, her tone firm.
“If I have caused offense, I sincerely apologize. However, I stand by my assurance: I mean no harm to this court or its King.”
The silence that followed was heavy, every set of eyes fixed on the King.
After a moment, the King lifted a gauntleted hand, silencing the crowd.
Their voice, calm yet commanding, resonated throughout the hall.
“Deception is hard to forgive, but we must consider intentions. Sir Agravain, you have articulated your concerns. Let us see if her actions reflect her words.”
Agravain reluctantly lowered his head. “As you command, My King.”
The King turned their visor slightly toward Natasha.
“Natalia Alianovna Romanova.”
The words sent a shock through Natasha.
Her true name—not Natasha Romanoff, but the name she had buried—was spoken aloud by someone she had never met.
“Do not attempt to deceive us, for I know who you are. There are no secrets before this throne.” The King’s proclamation echoed through the chamber, stripping away any illusion of control she thought she had.
The knights around her stiffened.
Even Mordred, previously relaxed, now observed her with narrowed eyes.
Bedivere’s calm demeanor tightened slightly. Gawain’s hand moved closer to his sword’s hilt.
Agravain, for his part, wore a smug smirk, his piercing gaze challenging her to refute it.
Natasha swallowed hard, her mind racing as she adjusted to this unexpected turn.
There was no point in denial—not here, not now.
She bowed her head deeply, her voice steady despite the turmoil within her.
“Your Majesty, you speak truthfully. I am Natalia Alianovna Romanova. That is indeed my true name, and I shall not deny it before your throne.”
The King’s imposing figure remained still, but their presence seemed to grow more palpable. “You have been known by many names, Natalia,” they said, their tone calm yet incisive.
“But this one belongs solely to you, unmasked by lies. We shall not judge you for your past, but understand this: the burden of truth is heavier here than in any realm you have known.”
Natasha inclined her head further, feeling the weight of their words settle upon her. “I understand, Your Majesty. While I stand before you, I will speak only the truth.”
The King nodded and turned to Agravain, who composed himself.
“Very well, the King’s great mercy will cover you this time, but attempt no further deception, or it shall be the King’s judgment next.” Agravain’s sharp warning hung in the air.
Though the immediate hostility lessened, the room’s tension remained. The knights stood vigilant, their stances firm, their gazes watchful.
Natasha raised her head, her expression unreadable. For just a moment, she met Agravain’s cold stare.
She had walked a fine line, but she had made it—barely. “Thank you, Sir Agravain,” she stated, her voice even. “I comprehend your words and will adhere to them.”
Sensing the delicate balance in the room, Sir Andrew stepped forward once more. His tone was smooth, diplomatic.
“Your Majesty, we appreciate your understanding and the opportunity to stand before you. Our purpose is straightforward: to seek mutual understanding and explore the potential of friendship between Camelot and the realm beyond.”
Once again, Sir Agravain represented his king. “You talk of friendship, yet the King is your rightful sovereign. These lands, including Camelot and territories beyond, belong to him, and you are his subject.”
The atmosphere in the throne room grew tense. Agravain’s words resonated throughout the hall, his clear, unwavering tone presenting a challenge that could not be ignored.
Natasha noticed Sir Andrew tense slightly, though he maintained his diplomatic demeanor.
Sir Andrew moved forward cautiously, his voice steady but firm.
“Sir Agravain, we stand as representatives of an independent realm. While we respect the grandeur and authority of Camelot, we seek not submission, but a partnership based on mutual respect.”
How could they not understand the implications of Agravain’s words?
His statement concealed a demand—for the UK to submit, for its government to dissolve, and for it to revert to a foreign monarchy.
Agravain's expression darkened, his sharp eyes narrowing. “Mutual respect? Such bold claims from outsiders. Respect must come through loyalty and allegiance to the King. You speak as if your realm rivals Camelot, but do you grasp the implications of that?”
Before Andrew could respond, Sir Richard Cole interjected, his tone less polished yet equally earnest.
“Sir Agravain, respectfully, history depicts Camelot as a symbol of unity and justice. If this is true, its King should value allies, not subjects. We do not aim to undermine Camelot’s sovereignty; we wish to honor it by standing alongside it.”
Natasha found his remarks ridiculous.
There was no chance the UK would submit to Camelot’s authority—just as it was impossible for the USA to revert to being a British colony.
Sir Agravain stepped forward once more, cold and unyielding.
His voice echoed with authority. “You misunderstand, Sir Andrew, Sir Richard, and everyone here. This is neither a negotiation nor a discussion.”
“Camelot is not merely a city, isolated from the world. It is a kingdom—its light extends over all lands once under its dominion, including England, Scotland, Wales, and beyond.”
The weight of his words hung visibly in the air, resonating like an unchangeable decree.
His tone grew firmer, almost accusatory. “You suggest that Camelot is a relic of the past, merely an ideal to admire or study?”
“You are mistaken. Camelot is a thriving kingdom, and its sovereignty is not diminished by time or by those who have forgotten their rightful King.”
Natasha saw Sir Andrew’s composure falter.
Sir Richard showed a mix of curiosity and disbelief.
Professor Marlowe looked entirely out of his depth.
Agravain’s piercing gaze scanned the delegation.
“The King before you is not just a ruler. They are the Lion King, the bearer of Rhongomyniad, and the legitimate sovereign of all lands identifying as England. This is not debatable; it is as certain as the sun rising or the sky being blue. Camelot’s claim is a fact.”
Tension filled the room.
The knights standing guard seemed puzzled that anything so evident needed stating—that indeed, all of England was Camelot.
Sir Andrew, commendably, did not waver. However, his voice carried more caution. "Sir Agravain, with utmost respect, the world beyond these walls has significantly changed.
The regions you reference have evolved over centuries, developing governments and systems that serve their citizens today. While we deeply honor Camelot’s legacy, we must acknowledge the realities of the modern world.”
Agravain’s harsh laughter filled the hall. There was no humor in it. “Reality? You regard reality as if it shifts with human whims.”
“The truth remains unchanged by time or convenience. The authority of the Lion King is unaffected by the ignorance or arrogance of those who might say otherwise.”
Natasha felt fractures developing within the delegation’s resolve.
Agravain’s relentless declarations hammered down on the delicate diplomacy they hoped to build.
She recognized the need for caution—outright defiance could escalate this fragile situation into open conflict.
Sir Andrew’s diplomatic façade began to wear thin. His fists clenched at his sides. His voice grew more intense.
“Sir Agravain, you speak as if history is an unbreakable chain. But England has long since ceased to be under Camelot’s rule; it hasn’t been for centuries.” The United Kingdom is a sovereign entity with its own government, people, and laws. We are not beholden to a throne that has long been absent from this world.”
Agravain’s expression darkened further.
His steadfast gaze locked onto Andrew as he advanced, his armored boots ringing with authority. “Absent? Do you dare claim that the King is absent?” His voice carried a chilling edge.
"The return of the King was foretold by Merlin himself. You should have known he would return. And when he does, he will guide the kingdom to unparalleled glory!"
Sir Andrew Farrow’s face reflected determination. He stepped forward, his voice steady yet laced with defiance. “Your Majesty, with all due respect, I must challenge the very foundation of the claims made here today.”
“You speak of Camelot’s dominion as if it is an unassailable truth, as if the people of England—and by extension, the United Kingdom—are simply waiting to bow to a throne they have not known for centuries.”
He paused, his words measured, yet gaining strength. “But the United Kingdom is not Camelot. Our government gains its legitimacy not from ancient claims or the will of a single ruler, but from the will of the people. It is they who select their leaders, determine their future, and hold their rulers accountable.”
The knights in the room visibly bristled at Andrew’s challenge.
Mordred’s smirk grew larger, amusement flickering in his eyes.
Agravain’s jaw tightened, his hands clenching into fists.
Gawain’s expression remained unreadable, but the tension in his posture was evident.
Bedivere glanced at the King, his face composed yet watchful.
Sir Andrew pressed on, undeterred by the mounting hostility. “Democracy may not be flawless, but it is the system we have embraced.
It reflects our belief that power belongs not to a single individual, but to all under its influence. So I ask you, Your Majesty—what gives you the right to rule? What grants Camelot’s King authority over a people who have long outgrown monarchs and crowns?”
An oppressive silence enveloped the room. Andrew’s question hung heavily in the air. Natasha felt the tension like a wound spring, poised to snap at any moment.
The knights seemed on the brink of outrage. But it wasn’t their swords that moved.
Instead, a sword striking stone shattered the tension.
As they turned, from Agravain to the King on the throne, they were shocked to see their hands resting on the hilt of a sword.
The sword radiated an ethereal light, its golden blade appearing to emanate the very essence of Camelot.
Every knight instinctively knelt, their gazes fixated on the weapon as though it were a divine relic—and indeed, to them, it was.
As Natasha focused on the sword, her keen eyes caught the inscription on its blade.
Penned in elegant, flowing script, it read:
"Whoso pulleth out this sword from this stone and anvil is rightwise king born of all England."
The weight of those words lingered in the air. It was as if the sword itself demanded respect.
Even Andrew faltered, temporarily forgetting his challenge in the presence of such undeniable authority.
Finally, the King spoke, their voice calm yet imbued with quiet strength. "This sword is Caliburn, the embodiment of kingship, not bestowed by mortal hands, but by providence. I do not assert my rule through conquest or force but through destiny.
The heavens declared me ruler, and the land bore witness when I drew this blade from the stone." The King’s hand rested gently on the hilt.
Although their movements were measured, it was clear the sword symbolized more than mere steel. "Tell me, Sir Andrew Farrow, does your democracy boast a blade wrought by divine will? A symbol of unity so powerful that it has withstood the test of time and legend?"
Andrew hesitated. His mouth opened and closed as though in search of words.
His diplomatic composure had seen him through many tense situations, but the presence of Caliburn—its golden light a vivid reminder of the King's claim—was a challenge unlike any he had faced.
Meanwhile, Natasha sensed the changing dynamics in the room.
Agravain’s expression reflected cold triumph. Mordred’s smirk had morphed into something resembling joy.
Even Gawain stood taller, his green eyes shining with pride in his King. Bedivere remained composed, yet reverent, his hand resting lightly on the hilt of his own sword.
Andrew found his voice, although it wavered. "Your Majesty... with all due respect, the will of the people is the core of our governance. While this sword... this Caliburn... indeed symbolizes divine favor, the world outside Camelot has transformed. It is no longer governed by symbols, but by the collective voices of its people."
The King inclined his head slightly—a gesture deliberate yet non-threatening. "And what do your people’s voices express, Sir Andrew?
Do they speak of unity, or do they shout in discord?
Do they celebrate their leaders' strength or lament their shortcomings?
Do they long for stability... or mourn its absence?"
The question left Andrew visibly rattled.
